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WHO 


I 


WAS SHE? 


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4^2 U-L- 

WHO WAS SHE? 


OR, 


THE SOLDIER’S BEST GLORY. 





PHILADELPHIA: 

CLAXTON, REMSEN & HAFFELFINGER, 

Nos. 819 and 821 Market Street. 

1871 . 



vy 






Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by 
CLAXTON, REMSEN & IIAFFELFINGER, 
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 


STEREOTYPED BY J. FAGAN A SON. 


PRINTED BY MOORE BROS. 



TO THE GENEROUS FRIEND, 

WHO AIDED, COUNSELLED, AND ENCOURAGED ME 
WHEN THE WAY WAS TOILSOME AND CIR- 
CUMSTANCES DEPRESSING, I GRATE- 
FULLY DEDICATE THIS FIRST 
LABOR OF MY HEART 
AND MIND AND 
HAND. 

THE AUTHOR. 


New York, August 15, 1870. 






















































\ 














































CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. 

PAGR 

The Farm-House 13 

CHAPTER II. 

Who was She ? 21 

CHAPTER III. 

The Mystery remains a Mystery 30 

CHAPTER IV. 

Little Phil makes his Bow 38 

CHAPTER V. 

Phil appears in a New Character 46 

CHAPTER VI. 

Under the Daisies 52 

CHAPTER VII. 

What comes of Catching a “Chipmunk” 69 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Repentance 79 

ix 

% 


xii CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

PAGE 

The Court-Ball 287 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Before the Battle 293 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

The Mystery no longer a Mystery 308 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Abraham Lincoln’s Last Reception 820 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

Shirley ventures on a Forlorn Hope, and Murray 

seeks a Domestic Altar 332 I 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

The Denotement astounds Davie 342 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

Philip wins his Last Victory 352 

CHAPTER XL. 

Distinguished Arrivals and Distinguished Depart- 
ures 363 j 

CHAPTER XLI. 

Dulce Domum * 374 


WHO WAS SHE? 


CHAPTER I. 

THE FARM-HOUSE. 

T HE summer twilight falling softly around the old Lee 
homestead was silently shutting up the flowers that 
the morning sun had kissed into full bloom, and touching 
the tender green leaves of the maples shading the west 
windows with a slight suspicion of gloom. Peacefully the 
night settled down over the harvest hills, until the wood- 
lands near the south meadow were lost in a faint outline of 
shadows. But the inmates of the Lee farm-house — a moss- 
grown, angular, old-fashioned structure — gave little heed 
to the quiet adieu of the sun ; for, as it is to all farmers, 
the slow falling of the midsummer night was always a busy 
hour with the Lee family — the hour when innumerable 
chores are to be disposed of, and the afternoon calm is 
broken by the bustling duties of supper-time. 

Mrs. Lee was a perfect embodiment of the true farmer’s 
wife, and knew how to economize both time and labor in 
her multiplicity of domestic cares. In the midst of the 
greatest hurry, brisk little Ruth Lee never appeared flus- 
tered in .manner, discouraged in temper, nor jaded in looks ; 
but, ever gentle and cheerful, her patient, loving life sanc- 
tified the arduous toil of every-day existence, and per- 
2 13 


14 


WHO WAS SHE? 


vaded every nook and corner of her pleasant home. It 
was a clear evening in August, twenty-five years ago, that 
we introduce the reader to this Ohio homestead, and its 
broad-shouldered, brawny-handed owner, David Lee. The 
old weather-embrowned home and sturdy farmer were the 
pride and boast of the little village of Alden. David, for 
his thrift, industry, and superior ideas of farming, was con- 
sidered as authority among his neighbors on the important 
subjects of stock-raising, subsoiling, draining, irrigating, 
enriching land, and the like. His farm was unanimously 
conceded to be among the best in the State ; his fine stock 
could safely challenge the best that grazed in Ohio’s rich 
valleys, and his genial, brown-eyed wife was loved by every 
one on whom their kindly light had shone. 

On this August evening the last cow of ten had been 
milked, and Hetty Smith — Mrs. Lee’s maid-of-all-work, or 
“help,” as she was usually designated by her sprightly 
little mistress — was busy in the dairy, actively engaged in 
straining the milk into the brightest of pans from the 
brightest of pails. Not one of your modern strainers, but 
a long narrow piece of linen, white as snow, dexterously 
held by Hetty’s experienced hands tight across one-half the 
pail, answered the purpose admirably. With a quick rush 
the milk, warm and foaming, splashed through the filtering- 
cloth into the burnished pans one after another, until the 
long row was filled and carefully set to “ rise.” 

Hetty plumed herself greatly on her butter and cheese- 
making, not permitting even her mistress within the sacred 
precincts of the dairy, save as an applauding spectator. 
She was extremely particular regarding the scalding and 
rinsing of her “ milk things,” and would allow no ordinary 
dishcloth or wiper to come in contact with the dazzling 
purity of her cherished pans and pails, strainers and cream- 
pots. Hetty’s power was supreme in the butter region, and 
while she clattered in the dairy, Mrs. Lee flitted noiselessly 




WHO WAS SHE? 


15 


from kitchen to pantry, intent on arranging the supper- 
table, occasionally stopping in her light walk — you would 
guess without being told, that it was a mother’s heart that 
modulated the soft footfalls — to peep into the little willow 
cradle where slumbered her fair-haired baby. Not the 
first baby — ah ! no ; little Vida was the fourth. But the 
others slept out in the grave-yard, silent and still, cradled - 
in tiny coffins, and covered by the summer daisies. Mrs. 
Lee had tenderly laid her little ones from her arms into 
the grave, trusting in God that it was best ; and now, Vida, 
the eight-months old darling, was the only one left of the 
four rosy babies that came amid joy and blessings to 
brighten the old Lee farm-house. Three little mounds on 
the hillside ; three little tablets recording the briefness of 
three little lives — that was all. But they left the home- 
stead desolate and the willow cradle empty. After a time 
another came, and the mother called her Vida, the girl- 
namesake of the father. Farmer Lee poohed and pished 
the idea at first; but his wife insisted, and so, secretly 
pleased, he acquiesced, although protesting that what Vida 
had to do with his plain name of David was more than he 
could tell. But little Ruth silenced him by imparting, 
with a convincing kiss on his ruddy cheek, which she had 
to stand on tiptoe to reach, that both names meant beloved , 
and were the dearest in the world to her. Whereupon 
bluff Farmer Lee patted her brown hair, and declared that 
Ruth was the dearest name of all others to him; but as one 
little Ruth lay buried, the other should have her way, and 
so the blue-eyed infant, with many hopes and fears, was 
baptized Vida Lee. 

On this particular evening supper was much later than 
usual, for it was the last day of haying, a matter of no 
little importance in the quiet routine of farm-life. David u 
Lee had determined to finish that day, and confidentially 
informed his pretty helpmate at dinner “ that all hands 


k 


16 


WHO WAS SHE? 


would work till moonrise, but that the last load should be 
safe in the barn,” winding up his decision with a cheery — 
“So, my wife, you must get along without Thad, for once.” 

The obliging wife assured David that she would willingly 
do so, and that is how Hetty was forced to bring up the 
cows and milk without the assistance of the boy designated 
rather vaguely by Mr. Lee as “ Thad.” 

While Mrs. Lee tripped to and fro, loading the table 
with all sorts of good things to appease the substantial ap- 
petites of those awaiting its wholesome plenty, the la^t huge 
load came slowly through the dusk, the odorous hay almost 
hiding the big brown oxen, whose wearily drooping heads and 
dragging steps told that they had had an unusually busy 
day. The just rising harvest-moon shone calmly down on 
the tired men and cattle, lighting up the dew-wet grass, 
through which millions of fireflies glowed and sparkled 
like tiny stars in an emerald sky. Behind the cart came 
Farmer Lee, in shirt-sleeves and broad-brimmed straw hat, 
carrying a rake and pitchfork on his shoulder, and in his 
hand the large stone water-jug. 

“ Baker ! ,? he called lustily to one of the hands in 
advance of the rest, “ you had better get the steers up right 
away; the unruly brutes will be in the corn before morn- 
ing. Put them in the barn-yard, and then come to supper. 
I guess Thad can get in the load alone.” So saying, 
David vaulted over the garden fence, and made for the 
kitchen. 

Baker promptly started after the unruly steers, and the 
youthful Thad, who was driving the brown oxen, made for 
the barn, whose wide doors stood open, waiting to receive 
the last load into its already full bosom. 

The boy walked thoughtfully beside the cattle, medita- 
tively chewing the stem of a fragrant red clover, until the 
wide horns of the oxen were almost entering the barn door, 
when he quickened his pace, and shouted encouragingly, 


WHO WAS SHE? 


17 


“ Come on, Bright ! haw up, gee ! come along in with it ! ” 
by voice and gesture urging the obedient cattle to their 
utmost. The strong animals meekly responded to his rapid 
words, and pulled with all their great strength. In a 
moment they were standing quietly in the middle of the 
barn floor, their pufBng breath and heaving sides telling 
plainly that they had done their very best. Thad dropped 
his whip, and in a second the little fingers had detached 
the heavy cart tongue. No sooner did it strike the floor 
than both oxen started for the yard. The lad quickly fol- 
lowed, removed the encumbering yoke, and turned their 
willing heads in the direction of the south pasture. Then 
he made all haste to the kitchen pump. After refreshing 
himself by a vigorous wash, he leisurely proceeded to brush 
the hay-seeds from his thick auburn hair, and don a slimpsy 
linen coat, when he was ready for supper. Despite that the 
boy looked tired and heated, his face possessed a sort of grave 
beauty that made one forget the coarse, unbleached cotton 
shirt, stained by grass-cutting and perspiration into a many- 
colored garment, the collarless neck, and ungainly shoes. 
Although he was very hungry, the lad stopped to kiss baby 
Vida, who, now wide awake, was industriously staring at 
the candle flickering on the mantel. After setting her little 
ladyship bolt upright in her cradle, and securing her ease 
and safety by propping her up with as many pillows as 
he could find, he passed on to the supper awaiting in the 
kitchen. 

After supper, Thad sat down in his old place on the 
front -door steps, and, resting his elbows on his knees, 
looked absently out into the night. He was a mere boy in 
years, scarcely thirteen, possessing a thoughtful mind and 
a severe, reserved maimer, in strange contrast with his boy- 
ish appearance, that always impressed one w T ith the idea 
that he was different from other children of his age.. 

Sitting there in the doorway, with his dew -moistened 
2 * 


I 


18 


WHO WAS SHE? 


locks pushed back from the sunburned brow, and his face 
still with inward thought, a lover of phrenology would 
have said that the finely developed head of Thaddeus Rug- 
gles, Farmer Lee’s bound-boy, contained a brain of rare 
promise, and the ability to do great things when the boy 
became a man, and the world before him, in which to win 
a place. Forensic genius was stamped on the high, open 
forehead. Oratorical power slumbered in the full auburn 
brown eyes, and the calm, unsmiling mouth seemed formed 
to utter the gravest truths. Vain flight of fancy! for 
Thaddeus Ruggles was the son of a drunkard, born amid 
vice and poverty so deep that it still lingered a bitter 
memory in his young soul. The grand intellect, destined 
of heaven for great and noble purposes, was cradled in 
rags. The first cry of the richly gifted babe wailed out 
amid the cheerless gloom of a stormy winter’s night. The 
morning found a helpless infant and a dead mother in the 
Ruggles shanty. The poor - house received the child, and 
the earth took to its frozen bosom the starved, heart-broken 
mother. Two years later, the wretched father died the 
drunkard’s horrible death, and little Thad, the pet of the 
poor-house, was indeed an orphan. 

One day, while passing the alms-house, David Lee 
chanced to catch a glimpse of the child’s grave face, peep- 
ing through the wide slats of the gate that marked the 
poor-house grounds. The bright, intelligent features pleased 
him, and he said mentally, “He is a smart little chap, 
whosever child he is. I vow I ’ll take him home to Ruth. 
Her heart aches for the boy she buried two months ago ; 
so I’ll take her this little castaway. Women of her 
nature find comfort in such things.” 

To think was to act, with Mr. Lee. Accordingly he 
hitched his bay roadsters, and, in his energetic way, made 
his desire known to the superintendent of the institution, 
who readily agreed to his proposals. A few old paupers 


WHO WAS SHE? 


19 


whimpered dismally when they found that little Thad was 
going away forever, and kissed him with their withered 
lips, and wrinkled cheeks wet with their sorrowing tears ; 
for the child had been cared for by the old hands that tried 
to bless and caress him in palsied' trembling ere he went 
from among them to a harder home, perhaps, and a colder 
care. No one paid any heed to their grief, however, and 
in twenty minutes the necessary papers were made out, and 
little Thad Ruggles, then only five years old, was lawfully 
bound to David Lee until he was twenty-one. 

Mrs. Lee kindly welcomed the motherless child of the 
poor-house, who would sit at her feet while she sewed, with 
his large, reddish-brown eyes intent on her face, for hours 
at a time, without changing his attitude or speaking a word 
— so still and mute that his child-gaze became strangely 
painful to Ruth, who would throw aside her work and take 
him in her lap just to see if the earnest mouth would smile 
back a reward for the kiss she gave it. But in vain her 
caresses. Before its birth the child’s nature had been bap- 
tized in its mother’s grief and tears. She had sobbed out 
her life trying to shield this grave-faced boy from the cold 
that was chilling her heart’s blood. From his dead mother 
Thad had inherited his soft auburn hair and eyes, as well 
as that habitual look of sadness which gave Ruth such dis- 
quiet, and made her wish that he would laugh and shout 
like other little boys of his age. 

Thaddeus never cared for play, and accepted work, when 
he was old enough to be of use, as a necessity that could 
not be avoided. He was always willing to do anything 
required of him, cheerful and even in temper. Seldom 
angry, never gay, but always thoughtful, he plodded through 
the many tasks set for him unmurmuringly, content that 
his hands should labor, though his mind was perpetually 
wandering after that which the farm could not give. 

Thaddeus worked hard, as all the Lee household did. 


L 


20 


WHO WAS SHE? 


Ruth was a kind mother to him, and his food and clothing 
were as good as that of his indulgent master. Mr. Lee 
sent him to school each winter, and generously provided 
him with hooks, that he might acquire a good education, 
thus in a measure fitting him for a useful life. 

Thaddeus, recalling the bitter memory of his lowly birth 
and the miserable degradation of his poor-house existence, 
would find his eyes filling with grateful tears when contrast- 
ing the past with the present. He often reproached him- 
self for lack of enthusiasm regarding his master’s cherished 
farm plans, and once shyly intimated as much to Mr. Lee. 
But the farmer only laughed, and said, good-naturedly, 
“Stick to your books, Thad, my boy ; I see your mind runs 
that way. Dig all you can out of sheepskin, and I ’ll grub 
in the soil.” Thad did stick to his books, and studied 
until the thoughtful eyes grew still more thoughtful, and 
the serious mouth more silent in its earnestness. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


^ 21 


CHAPTER II. 

WHO WAS SHE? 

F OR more than an hour Thad had been sitting motion- 
less on the door-stone, and might have sat there all 
night had not Ruth’s gentle voice interrupted his musings. 

“Come, Thad, you have worked very hard to-day, and 
the nights are short. Go to bed now and rest, for it will 
soon be to-morrow.” 

“Yes, mother,” (he always called the little woman mo- 
ther;) and, instantly rising, he turned to go, hut paused 
on hearing the latch of the garden gate rise and fall as if 
a weak hand had tried in vain to open it. Rove, the great 
lumbering Newfoundland, sleeping near by in the grass, 
caught the faint sound, and lifted his head with a low, 
warning growl. 

“ Did you not hear the latch lift, Thad ? ” asked Mrs. 
Lee, peering out in the moonlight. “ Hettie is in the 
kitchen, and father’s been in bed an hour, so it can’t be 
either of them. It is so dark under the maples that one 
can’t see anything, if anything were there.” 

“ I thought I heard some one at the gate, but I guess I 
was mistaken,” replied Thad. But, as he spoke, again 
came the faint click of the latch, this time followed by a 
low groan. Rove started up with a furious bark, and made 
a dash for the gate. “ Hush, Rove ! ” commanded Thad, 
as he flew after him. In a moment the boy was heard cry- 
ing hurriedly : 

“ Oh, mother, come quick ! It is a woman, and she has 
fainted — dead, perhaps. Oh, do come quick and help 
her ! ” 

Mrs. Lee instantly obeyed the excited voice, and was 


l' 


22 


WHO WAS SHE? 


soon beside' the prostrate woman, vigorously chafing the 
cold hands and white temples of the stranger, and giving 
vent to softly uttered words of pity. 

“ Poor, young thing ! what a miserable plight to be in. 
See, she has dropped her bundle — put it under her head, 
Thad, and then run for Hetty. She must be got into the 
house as soon as possible.” 

Thad caught up the bundle as directed, but came near 
letting it fall again, so great was his astonishment on feel- 
ing something stir within. 

“ Bundle ! ” he cried, in amazement ; “ do you call this a 
bundle? Why, mother, it ’s alive ; I can feel it kick ; it ’s 
a baby — a warm, breathing baby.” 

“ Oh, goodness ! ” gasped little Ruth, all in a flutter, 
snatching the kicking bundle from the wondering Thad 
with feminine dexterity. 

" A baby ! Bless me, so it is ! Oh, dear, dear — call 
Hetty. We must not let the poor, senseless mother die out 
here in the night.” 

Thad rushed to the kitchen, and nearly frightened placid 
Hetty out of her wits by blurting out in a breathless 
manner : 

“There is a woman with a baby, lying dead — I guess she 
is dead — at the gate.” 

Hetty, shocked beyond words, and forgetful of her cool- 
ing dish-water, threw her apron over her head and ran to 
the aid of her mistress. 

“ Mercy ! ” she cried, bending compassionately over the 
motionless figure, and placing her hard hand on the seem- 
ingly pulseless breast. “Mercy on us! Who is she? She 
don’t belong in these parts, that ’s certain. Who in the world 
can she be ? Deary me, how white her face is ! Thank 
heaven, her heart beats yet. I reckon, Mrs. Lee, she has 
only fainted. Tired out, and famished beside — that's what 
ails her. Bread and butter will bring her around all right.” 


WHO WAS SHE? 23 

“ I hope so,” returned Ruth, tearfully. “ But God help 
us, it is a pitiful sight.” 

Ah, yes ; it was a pitiful sight ! Heaven’s summer stars 
never looked down on a sadder picture than that of the 
woman who lay rigidly still and white as marble under the 
maples. Her long, bright hair, trailing over the damp 
grass, mingled its fairness with the dust of earth before it 
had known the touch of death. Fitful rays of moonlight 
flickered through the thick leaves and lit up the poor, pale, 
pinched face, with its closed eyes and chill brow, ghastly 
white in its stillness. 

“ Oh, God help her ! ” sighed Mrs. Lee, as Thaddeus and 
Hetty lifted the frail form and .silently bore her along the 
grassy garden path to the house, Ruth following with the 
child sound asleep in her motherly arms. Carefully 
depositing it in Vida’s cradle, she turned to assist in 
placing the stranger on the green -covered sitting-room 
lounge, when every means was employed to restore the poor 
creature to consciousness. At last their efforts were suc- 
cessful, and she slowly opened a pair of mournful gray 
eyes in blank bewilderment at the trio of strange faces 
bending pityingly above her. 

“Who are you all ? ” she asked, striving to sit up. 

“ We are. friends,” answered Ruth, gently; “and you are 
safe from the night dews. But you look ill ; have you 
travelled far ? ” 

“ I am very weary, and have travelled a long, long way, 
and I — I — ” The poor thing hesitated and turned away 
her head. But thought of the fountain that was perishing 
for want of bodily sustenance encouraged her to speak, and 
for her child’s sake she conquered her rising pride, and 
added, in a pitiful whisper, “ And I am very hungry.” 

Thad waited to hear no more, but bounded for the pan- 
try as if life depended on his reaching it in a second. Hetty 
anxiously called after him : 


24 


WHO WAS SHE? 


“ I guess you will find the tea hot yet, Thad ; I left the 
pot on the stove, and the fire ain’t out.” 

Thaddeus soon returned with food enough to satisfy the 
appetite of a dozen hungry women. The tea proved pass- 
ably hot, and the famished stranger swallowed a cupful at 
a single draught. She had fasted for two days, and ate 
like one starving. 

Suddenly she dropped the empty cup and sprang to her 
feet. Clasping her hands in a spasm of anguish, she cried 
wildly, “ Oh, my baby ; where is my baby ? Oh ! God, I 
have lost my child ! I must find my child ! ” Frantic with 
this new grief, she was about to rush out in search of her 
lost infant, when Hetty stopped her by taking her by the 
arm and pointing toward the cradle. 

“ Don’t distress yourself ; the baby is all right, and sleep- 
ing like a top.” 

In the general excitement the little one had been forgot- 
ten, but now everybody seemed bent on giving it the utmost 5 
attention; and the three females simultaneously made a 
grasp at the softly breathing and heretofore neglected bun- 
dle stowed away in the cradle. 

Mrs. Lee got the start, and succeeded in holding entire \ 
possession of the unconscious infant. Tired and exhausted, ! 
the mother sank back on the sofa, with the great, thankful \ 
tears silently dropping through her fingers, content to rest 
now that her child was safe. 

Hetty stood near in breathless expectation, while her 
mistress removed the baby’s wrappings, revealing the black- 
ringleted head of a mite of a baby, apparently some six 
months old. The blackest eyes ever seen quickly opened, 
shining like two stars from beneath their dark, heavily 
fringed lids. 

“ Oh, what a baby ! ” exclaimed Thad, starting back in 
surprise. “ Such eyes for an atom like that ! Why, I can 




WHO WAS SHE? 


25 


cover its whole face with the palm of my hand. It’s all 
hair and eyes ; just look at them twinkle.” 

“And they snapped open as bright as diamonds, without 
a drowsy look in them,” added Hetty, admiringly. “ So 
big and black and solemn ! I never before saw so odd and 
knowing an expression in a baby’s eyes; and then that 
head of curls might belong to a girl of five.” 

“Yes; but it’s a singularly lovely child, withal,” said 
Ruth, stooping to kiss its red, smiling mouth. The little 
lips curled angrily at the light touch, and a frown gathered 
on the tiny brow. Kicking out a rebellious foot, and toss- 
ing up her little doubled fists, she gave vent to a very 
decided cry of displeasure. Baby had no mind to be criti- 
cised so freely, waif though she was, and with all her 
power of lungs resented the indignity put upon her help- 
lessness. 

In vain Mrs. Lee essayed to soothe the vigorously protest- 
ing atom in her lap. She only yelled the harder. 

“ Give her to me,” said a weak voice from the sofa ; and ♦ 
Ruth gladly handed over her spunky little charge. 

The moment the gypsy head found itself pillowed on the 
mother’s bosom a profound silence ensued, and the spark- 
ling black eyes shone victoriously on the assembled group 
of would-be soothers. 

“Will you keep us to-night?” went on the weak voice, 
tremulous with emotion. “For this innocent babe’s sake, 

I cannot die in the street. I am a stranger in a strange 
land, poor and friendless. Y ou look kind and good. Have 
pity on the unfortunate, and give us shelter from the 
night.” 

“ Certainly,” replied Ruth. “ We never turn away even 
the undeserving needy who come to our door, much less a 
mother with a helpless infant in her arms. Your face bears 
the sad impress of sorrow and tears, but you look like one 
3 


26 


WHO WAS SHE? 


who has kept God in the midst of great trouble, and a 
Woman’s purity in the face of much suffering.” 

Hetty wiped a tear from her eye, and, glancing from the 
ringless finger of the stranger to the dark head of the elf- 
like child, sighed doubtingly. 1 

The woman caught the doubting glance of Hetty’s honest 
eyes, and, looking down at the small lineaments resting in 
her lap, said, in an explanatory tone : 

“She resembles her father — just his hair and eyes and 
look.” Again the ready tears came stealing down the pale 
cheeks, but she hastily put up a trembling hand to wipe 
them away, for the hot drops falling on baby’s little face 
made her angry, and sudden ominous kicks warned the sad 
mother to desist a further baptism of tears. Evidently 
the child’s father recalled bitter memories of the past — 
memories that had blighted this sorrowful, gray-eyed 
woman’s, life in its spring-time, and left her a wanderer, 
without home or kindred. Something of the kind was 
• doubtless passing through Hetty’s active mind, for she 
thought : 

“Some handsome scamp has been the poor thing’s ruin, 
and this witch of a baby is all his deceitful love was worth. 
His eyes and hair and that look cost her everything, and 
him — nothing.” 

In the midst of Hetty’s kindling wrath a new auditor 
appeared on the scene. No less a personage than the 
master of the house, in a decidedly scant night - toilet, 
and wearing an exceedingly surprised expression on his 
ruddy phiz. 

“What in the world are you all up so late for?” he 
inquired, modestly holding the bed-room door as close as 
he possibly could, with half his inquiring head thrust 
through the aperture. “ Come, Ruth,” he continued, some- 
what impatiently. “ Come, wife ; Davie ” (he had fallen 
into the habit of calling little Vida Davie ) “is squirming 


WHO WAS SHE? 


27 


like an eel, and, Lord knows, I am tired enough without — 
Good heavens ! what does this mean ? ” cried the master, 
thrusting his head through the partially open door, regard- 
less of the briefness of his garments, on beholding the 
extraordinary company seated in his sitting-room at that 
unseemly hour. 

t Thad was standing dejectedly by the mantel, while Hetty 
sat bolt upright, with her arms severely folded, in the grim- 
mest of silence. She had settled it in her own mind rela- 
tive to the “handsome scamp,” and was not to be easily 
softened. Little Ruth sat swaying gently to and fro in the 
low rocker, quite unconscious of the soothing motion, but 
looking the picture of sympathetic sorrow. And there on 
the lounge reclined the drooping stranger, shading her face 
with a hand as white as a lily, and an elfish infant slum- 
bering in her lap. Good David Lee saw all this at a 
glance; but, as he could not divine what the unusual 
excitement meant, he called out in some little consterna- 
tion : 

“ I say, wife, what ’s the row ? ” 

Mrs. Lee hastened to explain, which she did in a few 
words. 

“Oh, well! ,, said the matter-of-fact David, “put the 
poor creature to bed; that’s the best thing, and get the 
house quiet as soon as you can. Thad is tuckered out, 
and so am I. Stow ’em away, Ruthie, and we ’ll talk about 
it to-morrow.” 

Mrs. Lee immediately acted on this sensible advice, 
and directed Hetty to lead the way to the east bedroom. 
Hetty promptly obeyed, and, candle in hand, gingerly 
mounted the stairs, followed by the tottering stranger, 
whom she every moment, notwithstanding the “ handsome 
scamp,” turned back to assist. 

The time-honored east bedroom was a neat little cham- 
ber adjoining the indignant Miss Hetty’s. The floor was 


28 


WHO WAS SHE? 


covered by a comfortable rag carpet of many hues. A 
good old-fashioned bedstead stood majestically in one cor- 
ner, the high carved posts reaching nearly to the ceiling. 

A variegated patchwork quilt adorned the plump bed, 
folded back, so as to display the snow-white sheets to the 
best advantage. The daintily ruffled pillow-cases told of 
Ruth’s industrious fingers as plainly as the glossily starched 
Valenciennes did Hetty’s skill in doing up “ fine things.” A 
couple of wooden chairs, a dwarfed deal bureau, and a 
small gilt -framed looking-glass, together with a highly 
colored wood-cut, representing the youthful Washington, 
with the stereotyped hatchet and hacked cherry-tree, in 
the act of being reprimanded by his angry papa, completed 
the furniture of the east chamber. The stranger entered 
this quaint room as if it were a holy temple wherein she 
was to be sanctified. Her wan face startled Hetty as she 
turned its haggard outline toward the moonlight stream- 
ing in at the open window ; but the door suddenly shut be- 
tween them, and the outpouring gratitude of that stricken 
heart only God saw. It was too sacred for mortal eyes, 
and Hetty, standing alone in the passage, felt that the 
gray-eyed woman would never leave the Lee homestead. 

Thaddeus, filled too with the vague thought that the 
old life had vanished with the coming of the stranger and 
her weird-eyed child to the farm, mounted to his little j 
dormitory under the roof, where he had lain so often and 
listened to the rain pattering on the shingles and dripping 
from the eaves, with a half-defined pang of jealous doubt 
that Davie, the idol of his boy affections, was being 
wronged or in some way injured by the elf-baby slumber- 
ing in the east bedroom. 

In fifteen minutes the house was still and dark ; no sound 
broke the quiet, save the ticking of the old-fashioned 
kitchen-clock and the soft sighing of the wind through the 
maples. 




WHO WAS SHE? 


29 


Peacefully Mrs. Lee slumbered beside her snoring spouse, 
with her baby snuggled close to her heart ; for she was not 
the kind of mother to tuck her little one away in a crib. 
Ruth thought it so pleasant to wake up in the silent night, 
and feel Davie’s soft, tiny hand on her breast, and the 
baby’s breath, sweet as a rose-leaf, fluttering w’arm and 
regular against her heart. In the east bedroom the for- 
lorn stranger at last fell asleep with her baby in her arms, 
and her sad life one day nearer its God. How wide a dif- 
ference between these two mothers ! yet each slept with a 
beautiful babe nestled lovingly to her life-giving bosom, 
unconscious of all that in the future was to blend those two 
little lives together for good or ill. The moon waned past 
midnight, and while the stars paled in the mellow sky, 
Imogene, the weirdly beautiful child of destiny, in sweet 
slumber closed her wondrous eyes for the first time beneath 
the roof of the old Lee homestead. 

3 * 


30 


WHO WAS SHE? 


CHAPTER III. 

THE MYSTERY REMAINS A MYSTERY. 

T HE next morning found the strange lady too ill to 
rise, and for many weeks she lay very near the bor- 
ders of the spirit-land. It was the first of October when 
she began to recover sufficiently to admit of conversation, 
and during all this time she had been tenderly cared for 
by the Lees, who were entirely ignorant as to who she was, 
or from whence she came. Pier very name was a mystery 
which no one could reveal. She was, by birth and educa- 
tion, evidently a lady, and possessed a fair English face, 
and a slender form, much too fragile for the sorrowful wan- 
derings that had cast her, ill and fainting, at a stranger’s 
door. The cool autumn days appeared to restore her 
wonted strength, and under Mrs. Lee’s untiring care she 
rapidly became convalescent. Of course, good little Ruth, 
being but a woman, had her share of feminine curiosity, 
and was longing for an explanation, although she scrupu- 
lously refrained from intimating as much to the invalid, 
hoping that, with returning health, the pale lips would 
speak without being questioned. And Ruth was right, for 
one day she was startled by the strange lady laying a thin 
hand on her own. The weak white fingers caressed the 
plump brown ones of Ruth a moment, then the pale lips, 
in a sweet, low tone, began their story : 

“ Dear Mrs. Lee, have you no curiosity to know who the 
poor heart-broken creature is, on whom you have bestowed 
such heavenly charity ? The desire would be both natural 
and right. Sit near me, just where I can see your kind 
eyes grow tender, and I will tell you something of myself. 
I had nearly lost faith in God’s justice and earth’s pity 


WHO WAS SHE? 


31 


when you took me in, and taught me how kind humanity 
can be to the sick and friendless.” She paused to kiss the 
hand that she had scarcely strength to carry to her lips, 
and abruptly asked : “ How long have I been ill ? How 
long since I lay down under the maples, as I thought, to 
die ! ” 

“You came to us on the 10th of August, and to-day is 
the 5th of October,” said Ruth. “You have been ill — 
very ill, indeed ; but you are going to get well and strong 
again ; these delicious autumn breezes will set you up in no 
time.” 

“ Perhaps,” said the lady, doubtfully, pausing to look 
out of the window, as if to more vividly recall the sadness 
of that desolate night. 

At this juncture, little Imogene, who had been soundly 
sleeping on the bed, stirred angrily, and by a loud cry 
insisted on having the daintily embroidered blanket that 
covered her restless little limbs instantly removed. Ruth 
hastened to obey the imperious summons, and took the rosily 
slumber-flushed baby in her arms. 

“ It has been so long since I have held her : let me take 
her a few moments,” pleaded the mother. 

Ruth complied, and she nestled her pallid cheek against 
the infant’s black ringlets, and fondled the ftttle form until 
the velvet black eyes closed again, and the small, nervous 
head lay still on her bosom. Holding the tiny snow-flake 
of a hand in her own waxen fingers, the mother resumed : 

“I was born in England, of a good family; the youngest 
of three sisters. I received the best of education, and my 
youth and girlhood were full of sunshine. Three years ago, 
while travelling in France with a party of friends, I met a 
gentleman, and — and — ” She hesitated, and looked down 
at the child in her lap, as if her mind was far away with 
the man who had wronged her past all but a woman’s for- 
giveness. 


32 


WHO WAS SHE? 


Ruth shuddered, saying softly, “You met a gentleman in 
the sunny land of France, and — loved him.” 

' “ Yes ; dearly loved him” 

Oh, the sorrow expressed in those four slowly uttered 
words. They told the story of that wan face so eloquently 
that Ruth cared to hear no more. The tears were silently 
rolling over the pale cheeks now, and lay glittering like 
diamond-drops amid her baby’s black curls, so like those of 
the man she had so “ dearly loved.” She did not speak, 
but her trembling hand wandered lovingly over the child’s 
moist brow down to the dimpled knees and warm white 
mites of feet, the little pink toes just peeping from the 
white dress like ten little rosebuds in a cluster. 

“ How dreadful ! ” said Ruth, stooping, with her brown 
eyes full of tears, to kiss the pink toes and sleeping mouth, 
as a sort of relief to her feelings. “ You said, the night you 
came, that Genie looked like her father. He must have 
been very handsome, and, I fear, very wicked.” 

The English lady did not reply to the last remark, but, 
with her gaze still upon the child, said, tenderly : “ Yes, 
Genie is the image of her father, whom I loved with my 
whole heart, and married in the full belief that his soul 
was as true and beautiful as his wondrous face was divinely 
handsome.” • 

“ Married ! ” Ruth breathed freer. Her companion 
looked up searchingly. 

“Yes, Mrs. Lee; I would not have you think too hardly 
of me. I married him, and — and it brought me to this. 
He was rich, worldly, and I — well there is not much about 
me to win or keep the love of a man like him. Perhaps I 
was hasty, too quick in condemning — no matter, the past 
is beyond recall. Be silent as to what I have told you, and 
ask me no more. The story is too painful and recent; 
some time I may speak of it again, but not now. I cannot 
say anything unkindly of him with his child sleeping 


WHO WAS SHE? 


33 


against my heart. He never saw her but once, and then 
he kissed her and said she was every bit like him, and 
would grow up a splendid beauty, and that all Paris would 
be at her feet. Ah, my darling, she will never see France, 
much less reign a queen of beauty in its capital. And now, 
even to one so tender and generous as yourself, Mrs. Lee, I 
can say no more.” 

“And your name?” queried Ruth, awed by the sad, 
proud look settling like a shadow on the poor, white face 
lifted to hers in mute entreaty. 

“ You may call me Elinor Vale.” The name was little 
more than a whisper, but Ruth caught its musical sound, 
and replied, with all her true womanly nature sparkling in 
her eyes : 

“Well, Elinor Vale, you will accept a woman’s sympa- 
thy in your sorrow, and the secret that is blanching your 
cheek and eating away your very life shall be sacred ; for 
I know, in spite of the mystery surrounding your wife- 
hood, that you have done no wrong. The sin or neglect 
of others may have destroyed your happiness, but never 
tainted your pure nature.” Ruth’s kind hand crept into 
that of Elinor, where it lingered a moment, and then 
fluttered up to the fair hair, as if asking a blessing on the 
sorrow-bowed head of the woman whom God had sent to 
her* for love and protection. 

A long pause ensued before Elinor went on, the same 
plaintive undertone in her voice : 

“ I came to America with a hope of finding what I had 
lost beyond the sea. A hope so strong and dear that it 
kept me up all the long, long way. But it left me, never 
to return, ere I had been a day in this great, strange land. 
Too late I found my journey fruitless. My slender stock 
of money was soon gone, and one by one I was forced to 
part with my jewels. Many of them were very dear ; but 
my child must not die, so I disposed of everything that 


34 


WHO WAS SHE? 


would procure food — yes, everything but my wedding-ring : 
that I could not part with. I travelled for days seeking a 
situation as a country governess, or seamstress — anything 
that would give me food and shelter I would gladly have 
accepted, no matter how hard the toil ; but no one listened 
to my prayer. Now, I know that it was a wild request ; 
for what right had I, a poor, friendless woman, to ask the 
confidence of any one, who had no confidence to give in 
return ; but I did, for it was the only hope left. In my 
misery I cared not where I wandered — all places were 
alike ty) me; and unconscious of whither I was going, I 
took the stage at a town called Egmont. Some one said 
that it was in the State of Ohio, but I knew nothing of the 
country, and, sick and exhausted, walked blindly on, pray- 
ing all the way that for my child’s sake heaven would grant 
me strength to reach some friendly roof. God in his mercy 
heard my poor prayer and sent me to your gate. I remem- 
ber how heavy the latch seemed, and how many times I 
tried to lift it ; and all the while the thoughtful boy-figure 
was sitting in the bright moonlight on the door-step, un- 
mindful of my near wretchedness. Then comes the blank. 
You know the rest. God has restored my health, in part 
at least, and with that blessing comes the necessity to toil. 
I can sew and embroider well ; thoroughly understand 
music and drawing ; also French and German. Are there 
no wealthy families in the neighborhood to whom these 
accomplishments would be of value ? I would teach every- 
thing necessary for a finished education, and ask only bread 
in return. Oh, dear Mrs. Lee, you will help me find work 
of this kind, for I know nothing of rougher toil ? ” Elinor 
was sobbing bitterly ere she had finished this pitiful plea 
for assistance, and Ruth’s tears were falling too, but she 
managed to say, while wiping them away with the corner 
of her neat little apron, “ Oh, don’t think of work. Stay 
with us Elinor: the farm can well afford to support another. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


35 


Heaven has blessed us with humble plenty that we might 
share it with others who are less blest. Life here is quiet 
and full of content. No bitterness mingles with our joy; 
no wounding thorns lie hidden under our roses, ready to 
pierce the heart that loves them best. Stay with me, dear 
Elinor, and teach me the patience and humility born of 
sorrow.” .. 

“ No, no,” hastily interrupted Mrs. Yale ; “ God forbid ! 
You were not born for sorrows such as mine. However 
kindly you may wish me to remain, I cannot consent to be 
a burden to any one. Although so lowly, I have some pride 
left yet, and must earn my own livelihood.” 

“ Oh, don’t talk of being a burden,” said Ruth, in a hurt 
tone. “ I need some one to sew — David has always said 
so. And then Yida ought to have more attention than I 
have time to bestow. If you are determined on obtaining 
a situation, why not accept it from me ? I offer you a home 
and love, Elinor ; can the wide world give you more, or can 
you pain me by refusing ? ” The little woman was getting 
eloquent in her earnestness, and, coming a little nearer, said, 
playfully : 

“We are all workers here, and you shall not be an idler. 
Trust me for keeping you busy. Why, I have piles of sew- 
ing that must be done right away, and I was remarking as 
much to Hetty the other day,” and Ruth energetically 
; began enumerating the stock of unmade garments on hand, 
cleverly doing away with her companion’s last faintly-put 
objection of dependence by adding a formidable number 
of sheets, pillow-cases, and towels, that must be made as 
soon as possible, winding up with the convincing remark : 
“ It will be such a care off my hands to have a neat seam- 
stress always in the house. Besides, you are just the com- 
pany that I like, and will be such a comfort to me ! ” 

Elinor glanced up eagerly. “ Comfort ! Oh, can I be a 
comfort to yau ? dear Mrs. Lee? If I could make your 


36 


WHO WAS SHE? 


happy life more happy, I would gladly remain. Give me 
something to do, and let me call you Ruth, as I would a 
dear sister, and in this quiet room, far away from all that 
has made life so bitter, perhaps I may learn to forget. I 
know my years are few, but oh ! the joy of dying near one who 
will be a mother to my little girl.” Overcome by emotion, 
Elinor’s tears flowed anew, and she bent low to kiss Ruth’s 
clasped hands, as she sat with the fading light shining on 
her sweet face. Her cheeks were wet, for the pitying heart 
of Ruth was deeply touched, and, bending forward, her 
lips met the pale brow of the stranger, who w’as henceforth 
to be no more a stranger, but her friend and companion 
until the fair, foreign face of Elinor Vale lay under the 
hillside daisies. 

“ Don’t cry,” pleaded Ruth, trying to look bright through 
her tears. “ God’s ways are best. I said so when he took 
my dear little babies from me. Look to Him, and trust 
the future for many pleasant hours. But, see, Genie is 
awake, the smiling, star-eyed tyrant ! I ’ll take her below, 
and you lie down and rest. I fear you have been sitting 
up too long. I ’ll bring up your tea in an hour, if you are 
good and take a little nap first. Mind, I am nurse, and 
shall insist on strict obedience.” And taking the “ little 
tyrant ” from its weary mother, Mrs. Lee softly closed the 
door and tripped lightly away. And Elinor, in the fulness 
of her heart’s great gratitude, fell on her knees, and lifting 
her tear-wet face toward heaven, prayed that the best of 
God’s gifts might be given to good Ruth Lee, and that He 
would spare the one fair little daughter to her love. 

Not for herself, but for her, the noblest of women, did 
she pray. “My life is blasted past earth’s comforting,” 
she murmured. “I bow to the cross, and His will be done; 
but for this wife, mother, and friend I would crave my 
Father’s greatest blessing.” 

From that hour Elinor cheerfully took up her new duties, 


WHO WAS SHE? * 37 

and the calm, pale English lady became a permanent inmate 
of David Lee’s family. 

Ruth carried Genie down stairs, and with many admoni- 
tions “ to be good,” she set her down beside her own baby. 
The little elf puckered her red bud of a mouth, and cooed 
in a warlike manner at her small blonde companion, but 
contented herself by making vain attempts to grasp the 
silken locks of timid, wondering Davie, who stared aghast 
at the usurping effrontery of her gypsy mate. 

Occasionally Farmer Lee found time to give Elinor’s 
child a passing caress; but shy, studious Thad Ruggles 
felt a singular coldness toward the innocent infant. He 
greatly respected and admired the pale, intellectual lady, 
who seldom left her room, but her child he unconsciously 
shut from his heart, and refused to give it the smallest por- 
tion of the love that overflowed for winsome Davie. He 
remorsefully thought of his own desolate babyhood, and 
tried to be just; but the dark beautiful child of Elinor 
remained an outcast from his affections. 

4 


38 


WHO WAS SHE? 


CHAPTER IV. 

LITTLE PHIL MAKES HIS BOW. 

B LESS me ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Lee, looking lip from her 
sewing, as she sat by the window the day following her 
conversation with Elinor ; “ here comes Phil Shirley. It ’s 
well the babies are not asleep, for the young rogue would 
have them up in no time. As it is, I fear he will set them 
to fighting or crying before he has been in their presence a 
minute. Now, I remember, he has never seen Genie ; I 
wonder what the little mischief will think of her ? ” 

“ I ’m sure I’ll not take the trouble to ask him, for I can’t 
bear the mischievous scamp,” snapped Hetty, wrathfully 
jerking off into the pantry with the tray of apples she was 
peeling. “ That boy is the pest of the entire neighborhood. 
If there is a cat to be killed or a bird’s nest to be robbed, 
you will find the little wretch on hand.” 

The recipient of Mehetable’s ungracious encomiums, 
shrilly whistling, and throwing random stones at a pair of 
angry catbirds in the currant-bushes as he came along the 
garden path, at last leisurely swung himself into the pres- 
ence of the ireful Hetty Smith, who muttered : 

“ I vow, I hate the boy ; he is such a torment,” and 
vigorously slammed to the pantry door, thus shutting out 
the unconscious object of her deep aversion. 

As “that tormenting boy” is destined to be an important 
personage in our story, we will honor him, notwithstanding 
Miss Mehetable’s well-grounded prejudice, with a chapter 
by himself. 

Philip Shirley was the second son of a small farmer who 
resided about a mile from Mr. Lee, and was universally 
called the worst boy in the village. Some people went so 


WHO WAS SHE? 


39 


far as to say that he was the very worst boy that ever 
lived, and prophesied with the liveliest satisfaction that his 
end would be a well - deserved rope. At any rate, the 
young scapegrace was Alden’s worst boy, a distinction that 
seemed to please him highly, for he took every opportunity 
of making the appellation good. Phil boasted of having 
whipped every boy of his size within ten miles of the vil- 
lage. He had thrashed two or three school-teachers, be- 
side smashing the bedroom window of a vixenish old maid 
of the neighborhood, who had snappishly volunteered him 
a savage reproof on the evilness of his ways. Added to 
all this, he cut the minister’s harness to strings when he 
came to officiate at his sister’s marriage, and “ egged ” his 
would-be brother-in-law on the very eve of the wedding. 
Then he had stoned Dr. Humphrey’s pet pigeons until half 
a dozen lay kicking on the roof of the barn, where they 
came every morning to dress their bright plumage and 
to coo in the early sunlight. He had lamed Deacon 
Hooper’s best cow, and stolen the Widow Lake’s choice 
pippins ; had bobbed the tail of Gus Larcom’s fast sorrel 
mare, and plugged the waste-pipes of the Hon. Lot Col- 
burn’s fountain so effectively that his cherished flower-beds 
were all afloat, and his sacred lawn no better than a marsh ; 
and a score of similar pranks and depredations, all of which 
were unanimously laid at Master Phil’s door. There was 
no end to his mischief at home or elsewhere ; and thus con- 
vinced, his despairing father kindly gave everybody liberty 
to thrash him soundly if caught at his tricks ; but the lad 
was sly, cautious, and nimble as an eel, and although 
scarcely eight years old, was, as Hetty had said, the avowed 
pest of the village. 

This incorrigible Phil was a queer little chap to look at. 
Stunted in figure, with long, thin arms, short legs, and dis- 
proportionately broad-shouldered, Nature, as if to give the 
lie to that unpleasant prophecy of the final rope, refused to 

/ 


40 


WHO WAS SHE? 


give him a neck, but generously made amends by bestowing 
an enormous head, that seemed twice too large for his 
dwarfed little body. The phrenological developments of 
combativeness and destructiveness were inordinately large, 
and this wonderful head was round at the top, and looked 
as hard as a new bullet, characteristic of the warlike ele- 
ment that pervaded his fierce nature. Tough, wiry, and 
agile as a young Indian, cold or heat, storm or sunshine 
had little effect on him. Hard words and hard knocks he 
took and gave unflinchingly, as if that were what he came 
into the world for, and had no other mission to accomplish. 

A crop of stiff, black hair, cut as short as possible, and 
of exact evenness, came to an abrupt point where it met the 
bold forehead, and, curving away from the temples, made 
the great brow still more prominent, beneath which a pair 
of sharp black eyes, deep set under heavy projecting brows, 
sparkled and darted in everlasting alertness and mischief. 

The high cheek-bones, solid chin, and strong, thin-lipped 
mouth were far from imparting beauty to this singularly 
cast countenance, although the last somewhat gentle feature 
was the only thing that redeemed his face from a look of 
actual cruelty. But his smile was quick, brilliant, and 
strangely winning, transforming the hard, cross expression 
into one tender and fascinating, as rapidly as good nature 
followed his anger. 

Phil, as usual, was primitively attired in a buttonless 
cotton shirt, torn at the sleeves and collar, and pants that 
had evidently seen many rough-and-tumble battles, omin- 
ously rent in the rear, broken at the knees, and frayed at . 
the pockets. No hat was ever found big enough to fit his 
great head, and so Phil always carried that useful article 
of apparel in his hand, and seemed to value it for no other 
purpose than to catch butterflies, trap humble-bees, and 
thrash wasps’ nests, which tended to keep it in a very airy 
and healthful condition. The boy was a strange amalga-'" 


WHO WAS SHE? 


41 


mation of the fierce and tender; capable of fighting or 
loving to the death; possessing the slumbering ambition 
of a Napoleon, and the invincible courage of a Trajan, 
mingled with as much superabundant, overflowing boy- 
deviltry as could well be crammed in the pernicious com- 
position of one small youth. 

He was particularly fond of babies, especially so of the 
feminine portion of babydom. The girls always had a royal 
champion in dauntless little Phil. His ready sticks, stones, 
kicks, and cuffs had blackened the eye of many a bullying 
urchin, older by three good years than himself, for tor- 
menting those same little girls into tears and dirty aprons. 
From these frequent and protracted fights, his scant gar- 
ments were in perpetual tatters, to the infinite despair of 
his saving and tidy mother. 

But Phil was not to blame. He was born belligerent, 
and pommelled those who opposed or assailed him with the 
entire force of his sturdy little body. It is true he was 
stubborn, self-willed, and fiery ; possessing a terrible tem- 
per, anything like force or restraint aroused the tiger in 
him, and then his fury knew no bounds. Every boy in the 
village had experienced, by actual testing, these remark- 
able traits in Philip Shirley’s pugnacious disposition, and 
thereby stood in respectful fear of his active fists. But love 
and gentle persuasion would subdue and conquer him in a 
moment, although no one, not even his mother, had ever 
thought of resorting to this easy and simple method of 
keeping his temper and mischief in check. Let a little 
child say , “ Phil, I am so tired,” and it was on his back 
in a second ; or, “ Phil, I ’ve spilled all my dinner, and it’s 
so long till afternoon,” he would divide his last slice. And 
this was the lad who had excited Hetty’s indignation, and 
alarmed Mrs. Lee as to the armistice of the infants. 

Phil, after a farewell aim at the most noisy catbird, 
that laid it silent under the currant-bush, slid unceremo- 
4 * 


42 


WHO WAS SHE? 


niously in at the open door, loitering nonchalently on the 
sill, not in the least disconcerted at Mrs. Lee’s failure to 
bid him enter. Scratching his bare toes along a crack in 
the kitchen floor, to see how far he could go without get- 
ting off of it, he scraped over to the sitting-room, and took 
up the seam in the carpet as a substitute for the crack, 
slowly dragging himself toward the admiring babies. Re- 
linquishing the seam, he dropped down between the two, 
and, with his elbows on his knees, silently gazed first on 
one and then the other, as if trying to solve what the far- 
off future might contain for them. 

Lifting Imogene’s little dark face in his small brown 
hands, (Phil owned the daintiest hands and feet in the 
world, despite the tan and scratches,) he burst out enthusi- 
astically : 

“ By golly, ain’t she a ripper ? ” 

“ Philip,” gravely reproved Mrs. Lee, “ you should not 
say such naughty words.” 

“ Well, she is a jolly one,” persisted Phil. “She ain’t 
afraid of anything. If she was a boy, now, I bet she ’d 
fight till she hadn’t a rag on before she’d cave. You 
might pinch her blue, or pull her hair ever so hard, and 
she wouldn’t whimper, not a piep, ’cause she’s game.” 

To illustrate the truth of his remark, Phil slyly pulled 
the silken lock, a beautiful, tempting ringlet, just back of 
Genie’s dainty ear. She proved “game,” indeed, and 
worthy of his high encomiums, for she did not cry ; but 
an angry blaze darted into the velvet black eyes, and with 
all her baby strength she threw the rattle, with which she 
had been peacefully playing when Master Phil made his 
debut , into his face. 

Wild with sudden rage, he raised his hand to strike her 
in return — retaliation was the first impulse of his nature — 
but glancing down at the passionate mite scowling at him 
from the floor, he laughed, and contented himself by push- 


WHO WAS SHE? 


43 


ing her over. Baby did not cry at this new indignity, but 
lay passive as she fell, defiantly staring at him, without a 
wink or a sound. 

Presently Phil repented, and magnanimously stooped to 
raise her up, when, quick as lightning, she caught him by 
the ear and twisted away vigorously. Phil yelled and 
shook her, but the little thing held on bravely, clinging 
all the harder for the shaking. In the midst of it Vida 
began to scream at the top of her lungs, which brought 
Mrs. Lee to the rescue. “ I might have known better than 
to leave the room,” she exclaimed, in self-reproof, deftly 
disengaging Genie’s hand from her opponent’s burning ear. 
No sooner was he free than he turned on the still scream- 
ing Vida. 

“ Oh, hush your yellin’ ! You ain’t hurt, but you are 
such a precious white pimp. No game at all.” 

Mrs. Lee caught the little “ white pimp” to her bosom, 
and Davie tucked her frightened little face under her 
mother’s protecting arm, with the tears and scare and 
wonder still in her blue eyes. But Genie coolly tumbled 
over on the carpet, and fell to sucking the handle of her 
restored rattle as calmly as if she had not fought and 
conquered. 

Kuth, after seeing the two babies properly righted, per- 
emptorily led Master Phil out of the back door, and sternly 
bade him to run home. He went meekly enough to the 
threshold, but there he paused, and looking back over his 
shoulder, said, in a half whisper, “ Who is she f ” 

“Who is who?” replied Buth blankly, quite unable to 
understand to whom his inquiry referred. 

“ Why she, the little, dark tomtit there on the floor.” 

“You have treated her so badly I oughtn’t to tell you. 
It’s the poor, sick English lady’s baby, and you should be 
ashamed to hurt her, a great boy like you — and she a 
baby that cannot even walk yet.” 


44 


WHO WAS SHE? 


“ But she can pull/’ rejoined Phil, passing his hand over 
his hot ear. “ Yes, ma’am ; she can pull, and scratch, and 
kick, and lick babies who can walk out of their boots in 
two minutes. Oh, but she’s goin’ to make a jolly fighter, 
’cause it’s in her eye. Thad told me you had a strange 
girl baby here, and I came in to see it. No, ma’am, Miss 
Lee, I’d not hurt her for anything. I never fight little 
.’uns, only plague ’em. I never fight under my size. No, 
ma’am, I don’t.” Phil squared his funny little figure, and 
twisted his apology of a neck in a manner meant to be 
very convincing. He was silent a moment, standing with 
one foot on the sill and the other swinging in the air, as if 
reviewing the code of honorable pugilistic warfare before 
going on with his inquiries. 

Ruth was anxious to get rid of him as easily as possible, 
and, with Davie on one arm and her sewing hanging from 
the other, she pacifically urged his departure. 

“Come, come, Phil, run home, now; that’s a good boy. 
The children will be in better nature some other day, per- 
haps, and then you can make them another visit.” 

Phil looked up in her gentle face, with his own wearing 
its wondrous beautifying smile, that Mrs. Lee could not 
help patting kindly his close-cropped head ; and through 
all the changes of his changeful life Philip Shirley never 
forgot that gentle touch. His voice took a new note of 
sweetness, when he said : 

“I’m going, Miss Lee; for there’s lots of bumble-bees 
on the thistles ; but what’s her name?” with another back- 
ward look at Genie. i , 

“Imogene Yale.” r , 

“Imogene; it’s tame; I don’t at all like it,” said the boy, 
contemptuously. “ I shall call her Gypsy Yale ; for she is , 
a regular out-and-out gypsy.” And taking up . his whistle 
just where he had left off when stoning the catbirds, he 
departed as leisurely as he came. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


45 


Phil did not mind being sent off — he was used to it ; but 
slipped down through the beet and onion beds, back of the 
pea-vines, until he came to the garden fence, where, snugly- 
ensconced under a great gooseberry-bush, he discovered an 
old hen' patiently incubating thirteen eggs. Of course, 
being Phil Shirley, “ that worst boy,” he pulled her sum- 
marily from the nest, clapped his hat over her to stop her 
“ bloody squeaking,” as he termed a setting hen’s natural 
notes of alarm, and for fifteen minutes after quietly amused 
himself by diligently puncturing, one by one, the warm 
eggs, with a very crooked pin, which was doing duty as a 
button somewhere in the suspender-region of his dilapidated 
raiment. It is needless to say that those thirteen eggs did 
not hatch, much to the maternal anguish of the hen, and 
the unspeakable surprise of Hetty, who declared it was the 
strangest thing she ever heard of. 

Carefully replacing the crooked pin, after a vain attempt 
to straighten it by bending it back and forth between his 
teeth, he liberated the old hen, who was so nearly smoth- 
ered that she could not squeak. Indeed, the poor effort of 
ruffling her draggled feathers was too much, and she pitched 
over on her bill, incapable of even the ghost of a cluck. 
He watched her creep off among the parsnips and cabbages, 
apparently bent on going direct to Hetty for sympathy and 
redress. After this exploit, Phil wandered on through the 
currant-bushes and garden blackberry-vines till he came 
to a dozen beehives, one of which he daringly overturned, 
and then skulked away through the white clover to escape 
the infuriated bees swarming angrily in the air. In the 
short hour he devoted to Mrs. Lee and her affairs Phil had 
contrived to do a good deal of mischief ; but in that time 
he had met Imogene, the baby girl, who was destined to 
rule his remarkable life. This was the beginning, but the 
end was — where f 


46 


WHO WAS SHE? 


CHAPTER V. 

PHIL APPEARS IN A NEW CHARACTER. 

• 

F IVE years went by, and never since that day had the 
English lady alluded to the mystery surrounding her 
life. “Who was she?” was still a question unanswered, 
and she alone who could elucidate the matter remained 
mute. Again the autumn leaves were dying, and fair 
Elinor was fading with them. All summer the hectic 
bloom had deepened on her hollow cheeks ; the sad gray 
eyes, more wondrous bright, grew large and vacant day by 
day, and the poor emaciated hands too feeble to lift the 
little girl, who would stand at her knee with her great 
solemn black eyes uplifted, as if trying to read the mystic 
sign written on her mother’s thin features. She was used 
to the racking cough and tremulous step ; but, poor child, 
she did not know that they were sure heralds of the insid- 
ious disease that was so soon to write her motherless. The 
child’s whole passionate, wayward heart went out to this 
frail mother in a perfect wildness of love. The haughty 
little creature, headstrong, perverse, and tyrannical, was at 
times almost unmanageable, and acknowledged no rule 
save that of her dying mother. There Imogene’s affections 
were true and deep and reverencing. Already the whis- 
pered mystery of her presence in the Lee family seemed to 
be strongly impressed on her young mind. Intuitively she 
appeared to realize that she had a sneering world to fight, 
and boldly turned toward it her beautiful face, bidding it 
defiance even in her babyhood. Daily the strong intellect 
and imperious will developed, unchecked by either Davie’s 
gentle companionship or Mrs. Lee’s meek counsel, and, 
though little more than five years old, the child queened it 


WHO WAS SHE? 


47 


over timid Vida, mild Ruth, and good-natured David, right 
royally, and returned the silent dislike of Thaddeus with 
open scorn. Young Ruggles, now a tall, slight stripling of 
eighteen, with the old instinctive spirit of jealousy still 
predominant in the inmost recess of his heart, felt keenly 
that Mrs. Lee’s blonde little daughter shrank to nothing 
beside the brilliant, beautiful Imogene. He never liked 
her proud, foreign face, with its midnight eyes and curling 
cloud of purple black hair ; but he knew that the world 
would freely give to her the admiration and love which the 
gentler nature could never hope to gain. But everybody 
knew that a great sorrow was stealthily coming to the 
child, and so everybody, even Thaddeus, pitied her, and 
allowed Imogene her way. 

Next to her mother, that strange embodiment of good 
and evil, Phil Shirley, was her idol. She liked his daring 
and mischief immensely, and was never loath to lend a 
helping hand when necessary. It was no unusual occur- 
rence for them to indulge in private battles of their own ; 
but they were sure to make up again in an hour, as good 
friends as before. Genie often spoke of him to her mother, 
who had scarcely seen him twice in the five years she had 
been in Alden. Elinor lived almost entirely in the east 
bedroom, apart from the bustle and hurry of the work-day 
world. Her little daughter’s prattling school-talk of Phil 
and his doings, however, were always listened to with 
interest, and in the end created an intense desire in her 
heart to see him. She said nothing of this wish to the 
child, who, in her impetuous way, would have instantly 
rushed off in search of her uncouth playmate, delighted at 
her mother wanting to see one whom she thought “just the 
best worst boy that ever lived.” Mrs. Vale kept the long- 
ing to herself until it became very difficult for her to walk 
from the bed to the easy-chair by the window, and then 
she all of a sudden surprised Mrs. Lee, by asking to see 


48 


WHO WAS SHE? 


the generally tabooed Phil Shirley. “ Genie talks so 
much about him,” apologized the invalid, as if it was 
necessary to make an excuse for wishing to see so rude a 
visitor. Ruth, though somewhat astonished, perceived that 
Elinor was in earnest, and as she happened to see Phil that 
afternoon, she without hesitation sent him up to the sick- 
chamber, not, however, until she had given him many 
injunctions “ to be a good boy, and remember his manners, 
for the lady was sick, and would never be well again.” 
Thus enjoined, Phil considered it a very solemn affair, and 
as a prelude to “ remembering his manners,” threw his hat, 
which might have been that identical butterfly-catcher of 
five years ago, into the corner back of the chamber-door, 
and s 1 >wly mounted the stairs, counting each step as he 
ascended, not at all anxious to enter Elinor’s presence. 
He had a boy’s horror of meeting a white, consumptive 
face, with only a week of life in it; and then, too, he 
recollected how he had heard some one say that “ Miss 
Yale was nothing but a breathing skeleton.” Very lightly* 
he stepped to the door, and the faint “Come in” that 
answered his low knock was very promptly responded to. 
Once inside, he pushed it shut with his back, and all of a 
sudden fell to admiring the red stripes of the neatly woven 
rag carpet. 

Elinor glanced up and held out her hand. Phil hesi- 
tated, as if afraid to touch such a poor, white, lifeless thing, 
and again took refuge in admiring the red stripes. After 
a moment he conquered the weakness, and resolutely laid 
his warm, healthy hand in Elinor’s blue-vained palm. He 
was not sorry, however, when she withdrew it ; but he was 
a good deal amazed when she put her arm about him, as he 
stood beside her chair, and bent her still fair face, tinted 
all over, except the white brow, with the stealthy death- 
rose, and kissed him two or three times, not quick and 
anxiously, but slow and lingeringly, as if uttering a bless- 


WHO WAS SHE? 


49 


ing between each caress. Phil forgot how very near the 
grave poor Elinor stood, and dropped his head against her 
arm — ah, upon her breast — for he was on his knees 
beside her now, and crying like a broken-hearted child. 
Ruth’s kindly touch might roll back to him a vague dream 
of the past, but Elinor’s kiss was eternal. The future might 
steep him in guilt to the very lips ; but the spot her lips 
kissed, pure in his heart that day, would ever remain holy ! 
His tears wet the lace ruffle at her throat, but she did not 
check the flow, knowing that the tide would go back to its 
source and leave the stream undisturbed. For a quarter 
of an hour she sat with her arm about him and his head 
upon her bosom ; then the boy’s restless black eyes went 
up to her face. His heart gave a great bound of hope — 
she was not going to die ! She was not so very thin, and 
then her eyes were as bright as twilight stars, and her 
bloom as vivid as a girl’s. What made people say that 
she was so sick — so very sick ? Phil did not believe it ; 
and just as soon as he could steady his voice, he determined 
to offer a remedy which he felt thoroughly convinced would 
restore Elinor to perfect health. While he was considering 
about this infallible prescription, Elinor interrupted his 
reflections by asking : 

“The villagers call you a strange boy, don’t they, 
Philip ? ” 

“ A had boy,” corrected Phil, promptly. “ One of the 
very worst.” 

“ Oh, yes ; but people are often mistaken,” replied the 
invalid, lightly passing her fingers over the great brow and 
bristling black hair, cut short as ever, and without a part. 

' “ You may be Alden’s worst boy, but I somehow feel, 
Philip, that you will also be its most famous man. Thad- 
i deus Ruggles possesses a genius to win men — you a power 
to bend them ; he might become the star of thousands, 
i you the glory of raiUious ; but let ambitious dreams pass. 

5 


50 


WHO WAS SHE? 


Keep the heart of your boyhood, and life will work out its 
own destiny. Genie often tells me how good and brave you 
' are in her behalf. Are you fond of my little girl, Philip ?” 

“ Fond of Gypsy ? I guess I am. Why, I thrash every- 
body who is cross to her. Not the girls, you know ; but I 
whack their brothers, and that makes it even, and it pleases 
Gypsy just as well.” 

A flickering smile played on Elinor’s lips at this frankly 
confessed devotion to her daughter, and half unconsciously 
she laid her cheek against the little bronze-like hand rest- 
ing on the back of her chair. He looked so strong, and so 
capable of protecting a girl’s rights, that she fell to rever- 
encing those very qualities that all Alden were strenuously 
condemning. Phil, unused to such womanly caressing — 
most women would as soon have thought of fondling a 
chestnut-burr — stood wonderingly passive, touched to the 
bottom of his brave, burly heart. Her color and strength 
were visibly failing with the unwonted excitement; and 
when she spoke again, Phil started, so changed was her face 
and voice. 

“ Philip,” she said, struggling to suppress a rising cough, 

“ poor Gypsy will soon be all alone. Always be kind to her, 
for she is a little thing to fight the world, without father or 
mother or kindred to love and care for her.” At mention 
of Genie, Phil was his old impetuous self, and ready for 
combat, protest, or promise. 

“Yes, I’ll always be kind to Gypsy. Indeed, ma’am, 
she ’ll never lack a friend while I live ; but it ain’t dying 
you mean. Oh ! don’t think of that, for I know of some- 
thing that will cure you. It ’s a sirup. Mother makes it. 
It ’s got balsam, and comfrey, and spigment, and rascafa- 
rilla, and lots of suchlike in it. , Some of ’em you have to - 
pull, and some of ’em you have to dig ; but I can get ’em 
all, and they ’ll cure your cough in just no time at all. I ’ll 
go right off, and get the balsam. Some calls it life ever- 


WHO WAS SHE? 


51 


lasting ; it grows everywhere in the pastures ; it ’s the main 
thing in the sirup, and there ain’t no cough that can 
stand it.” 

Phil’s eagerness was so great to be off after these miracu- 
lous roots and herbs that Elinor hardly knew how to find 
words or strength to restrain him. 

“ No, no, Philip, my child ; nothing can help me now. In . 
a few weeks, days, perhaps, I shall be gone ; then I would 
have you remember that you promised to be kind to Genie ; 
that her dead mother wished it, and that she kissed and 
blessed you in tenderest love only a little time before death 
chilled the fountain of tenderness. I so wanted to bid you 
good-by, and now it ’s over.” Again she kissed him, and 
the touch was sadder than tears. Like one in a dream, the 
boy departed, glancing cautiously back, as if he expected 
the pale sufferer to spread a pair of white wings, and float 
away to heaven without the pain of further dying. 

Left alone, Elinor closed her eyes and murmured : 

“He is fond of Genie, and she is fond of him. Ah! 
strange, passing strange, that those two vastly different 
natures should so wonderfully assimilate. God keep them ; 
for they are full of earth’s passions. Pride and ambition 
kill love sometimes ; they killed me, Oh, God, in pity 
watch over them, and save them from their own heart- 
fierceness ! ” 

Ruth came in to find her fearfully exhausted, and una- 
ble to rise. For the last time she was assisted to the white 
pillows, and the easy-chair by the window never received 
her frail form again. 


52 


WHO WAS SHE? 




CHAPTER VI. 


UNDER THE DAISIES. 


NE peaceful afternoon, when the October sun was sink- 



yj ing toward the west, Elinor begged them to put aside 
the curtain, that she might see the brown harvest lots 
flooded once more by the warm autumn sunlight. For 
more than a week she had lain there on the high-testered 
bed, a white shadow awaiting the angel that should fan out 
the fluttering flame and bear away the tired spirit to the 
land of the blessed. 

They knew it was her last sunset, and Ruth had hoped 
that for Imogene’s sake she would speak ; but the precious 
hours were swiftly passing, and still she was dumb. 

Mrs. Lee looped back the white muslin curtains with that 
dull, numb feeling that one experiences when long-looked- 
for dissolution is close at hand. Occasionally a yellow 
leaf from the maples shivered down, drifting against the 
window-sills in its slow descent. Elinor noticed the mel- 
ancholy dropping of the leaves by a softly uttered “ Dying, 
everything is dying ! ” 

After a little while she asked : k 

“ Are we alone, dear Ruth ? ” 

“ All alone,” replied Ruth, coming to the bedside and 
rearranging the pillows. Elinor caught the softly active 
hand patting about on the bedclothes, and, lifting her fad- 
ing eyes, said sweetly : 

“ Ruthie dear, I am dying. I shall never see another 
sunset. It will rise to-morrow in full glory, but I shall lay 
here shrouded and mute. You have made my journey to 
heaven pleasant and peaceful. Oh ! Ruth, dear, dear friend, 
have I been ungrateful in keeping you ignorant of all my 


WHO WAS SHE? 


53 


past ? Oh ! poor, pitiful pride ! I shrink from telling it 
even now, when shivering in death’s cold grasp. But I 
must, for it is a sacred trust I give you in keeping for my 
daughter. Oh ! Ruth, you will care for my child ? Guard 
her wayward youth as tenderly as I would have done had 
God spared me to her. Oh ! watch over and pray for her, 
Ruth ; pray with a mother’s love in your heart, and I will 
guard from heaven. When she is in the shadows, stand 
beside her. Never, never desert her, no matter what the 
woe. You will promise, Ruth ? ” 

“ I accept the trust, and, as God sees me, your child shall 
ever be as my own,” was the solemn answer. 

The nerveless fingers tried to bestow a thankful pressure, 
but she could only whisper : 

“ Dearest and best of women, may Christ ever keep you 
in his loving care. If dying lips can bestow blessings, oh, 
you will be blessed a thousand-fold. 

“Ah ! my time is so short, and I have much to say. Imo- 
gene has proud, passionate, rebellious blood in her veins. 
She comes of a wild, beautiful race, who ever allow their 
inordinate pride to ruthlessly trample their best love under 
foot. Therefore, for her dead mother’s sake, bear tenderly 
and forgivingly with her future.” Elinor paused, as if 
gathering strength for another effort. Mrs. Lee was quiet, 
too ; only the drifting leaves fluttered through the oppressive 
stillness, that every moment seemed to increase ; not a bird 
chirruped, not a bee hummed. Nature itself hushed her 
myriads of insect life that the dread messenger might more 
deeply impress humanity with his awful majesty. 

The sufferer rallied her sinking spirit, and said, more 
strongly than before : 

“ Raise my head a little, Ruth ; there, thank you. Now 
bring the pearl box from the bureau.” 

Ruth obeyed, and laid the small mother-o’-pearl box on 
the bed. It was a cherished souvenir of those long-shat- 
5 * 


54 


WHO WAS SHE? 


tered “ better days,” and Elinor looked at it as you have 
seen tearless grief gaze at a closed coffin that contains all that 
the heart holds dear. The key Elinor always wore about 
her neck ; she motioned Ruth to remove it, languidly indi- 
cating the clasp with fingers so cold that Ruth involuntarily 
started when they came in contact with her own. When 
the box lay open before her, Ruth felt disappointed, for it 
contained nothing but a tiny velvet case. 

Reading the disappointment in her face, Elinor said, “ I 
have no papers. I sent all the proofs across the sea, hoping 
that some day they might do her justice. This is all I have,” 
opening the white velvet case and holding up a sparkling 
ring. “ It fitted once,” she s*aid, musingly, turning it around 
and around on her thin finger. 

It was a rare, costly ring, of odd workmanship and most 
appalling device — an emerald serpent coiling about a ruby 
heart, surrounded by a circlet of diamonds. Ruth, dis- 
mayed at so suggestive a love-pledge, turned away from the 
glittering thing, quite thankful that she wore a plain gold 
band on her third finger, and not the hideous emblem of 
a snake. 

“ It is the crest of her father’s house,” went on Elinor, 
“and rightfully belongs to Imogene.* Give it her the day 
she is fifteen, and tell her that her mother wore it honorably. 
It brought me infinite sorrow and trouble, but never dis- 
honor.” A faint color crept into the wan cheeks, fading 
out to leave the set features still more pallid. Lovingly she 
laid the jewel against her murmuring lips, the green of the 
emerald flashing back the blush of the ruby, and kissed it 
a dozen times ere replacing it in its velvet bed. It was the 
pledge of that love which had broken her heart years 
agone ; but it was still the dearest thing in the world to 
poor, dying Elinor. The last pang of earthly love over, 
she remained very quiet a moment; then she spoke again, 
but in a voice so feeble that Ruth strained her ear to listen : 


WHO WAS SHE? 


55 


“Sit close beside me, for I am failing rapidly, and you shall 
hear my story, the whole truth, and then — ” 

But Buth never did from her lips, for the door quickly 
opened, and Imogene sprang lightly into the room. 

“Too late,” moaned Elinor; “I must have my child the 
little time left. Forgive me, Buth, that you will never 
know the truth through me.” Buth covered her eyes, for she 
saw the gray shadow slowly creeping over the visibly sink- 
ing features. Going to the window, she saw Thaddeus under 
the maples, and beckoned him to come. Anticipating that 
help would be needed, he had remained near the house all 
day, and in a second noiselessly entered the sick-chamber. 
Imogene’s black eyes, dilated with terror, gazed from Buth 
to Thaddeus in bewildered amazement, unable to interpret 
their looks of utter sadness. At last she seemed to com- 
prehend the awful solemnity of the hour, and, running up 
to the bed, she paused on tiptoe, as if to gain courage 
before looking upon the rigidness of death. With a low, 
choking sob, the child dropped her young head beside her 
mother’s ashy face, the black ringlets in startling con- 
trast with the parent’s haggard, death - stricken counte- 
nance. 

“ Oh, mamma, mamma ! ” wept Imogene piteously ; 
“ Please, mamma, look up.” The pleading voice called to 
energy the mother’s last spark of life, and she gathered her 
arms about the lithe, graceful form, and drew her child for 
the last, last time to her almost pulseless bosom. Thaddeus 
forgot his old jealous prejudices when he saw Genie’s flying 
curls settle all in a heap on the pillow and the agony ex- 
pressed in the quivering face, that was all the more beauti- 
ful from the whiteness of the one beneath it. 

Wrapped in that close embrace, Imogene for a little time 
lay quite still, but the painful silence aroused the passionate 
heart to a madness of hope. Perhaps her mother might not 
die ! The thought was insanity, but the child seized upon it 


56 


WHO WAS SHE? 


with all the tenacity of her impetuous nature, and called 
out eagerly : 

“ Oh ! mamma, dear, dear mamma, do please get warm.” 
And she fell to rubbing cheeks and brow with the utmost 
vigor of her little, warm hands. She had seen them resort 
to this remedy when her mother had been attacked with 
protracted fainting-fits, and entreatingly coaxed and com- 
manded Ruth to help her. Mrs. Lee, dreading one of her 
ungovernable outbursts, pretended to comply, but warmth 
and color would not come. Death’s icy finger was there 
before them, and had frozen the life-blood at the fountain. 
Several times Elinor tried to speak, but the struggle ended 
with only a faint, inarticulate sound, like the gurgling of 
freezing waters. The dim eyes looked up, filled with unut- 
terable love, and a something that hushed the wild tumult 
raging in Imogene’s breast as effectually as if the poor 
child’s heart had been turned into stone. By a mighty 
effort the stilling lips called back their power, and with a 
strength born of immediate dissolution, Elinor partially 
raised herself from the pillow and caught her child im- 
pulsively to her breast. 

“God bless my daughter! Oh, Imogene, my darling, 
keep your mother’s dying kiss as a shield between thee and 
evil. Remember this hour throughout all your future, that 
you were mother’s poor darling, and that she blessed you 
while she died.” Her hand wandered vaguely about, now 
lifted, now falling, as if seeking something. Ruth divined 
its intention, and gently placed it on the child’s head. A 
satisfied smile lighted up the ghastly features. “ I can’t 
see you, Ruth, but I know your touch. God bless you. 
I leave my child to your care. Now I am done with earth.” 
Reaching out her arms convulsively, she shivered slightly, 
and slowly closed her eyes. The sad, gray orbs were shut 
forever, but the white lips still trembled. Ruth bent her 
ear to listen. The one word “Jasper ” was all she heard. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


57 


Elinor’s last breath fluttered out with the name, and the 
fair English lady of Alden was dead. Imogene’s grief 
knew no bounds. Thrusting away their pitying hands, she 
threw herself beside her mother’s rigid form, and sobbingly 
begged her to speak. In vain Hetty consoled, and Mrs. 
Lee persuaded — she would not be removed, her only reply 
being : 

“ Oh, Aunt Ruth,” (she always termed Mrs. Lee aunt,) 
“my mother is dead. She is cold, and cannot see. Won’t 
she never, never hear me speak again ? Oh, auntie, wake 
her up. I ’ll help you, and I’ll always be good, and I won’t 
strike Davie again, never, never. I’m awful sorry I was 
ever naughty and didn’t mind you ! ” 

Her cries and protestations were heart-rending. Ruth 
could not bear it, and, weeping bitterly, she turned her 
gaze from the black, beseeching child-eyes, appealing to 
her from that mother’s stiffening corpse. 

Thaddeus, in order to end this terrible heart-wringing, 
more dreadful than death itself, and deeming persuasion 
useless, took her forcibly away. She fought desperately 
against his authority. 

“ Put me down ! ” she cried, struggling violently in his 
arms. “Put me down! I hate you, Tad Ruggles! You 
shan’t touch me. Y ou shan’t take me from my mother ! ” 
But her resistance was fruitless, for Thaddeus firmly bore 
her down stairs, she screaming at every step that she hated 
him, and wanted her mother. Ruth never forgot the 
mingled rage and anguish of that little tear-drenched face 
as it disappeared through the doorway. She remembered 
it in after years, when Imogene had need of forgiveness — 
remembered how the child’s splendid eyes, blurred with 
passionate tears, looked back over Thad’s tall shoulder, im- 
ploringly stretching her little arms toward her voiceless 
mother, and piteously crying for her to wake. 

Thaddeus deposited his struggling burden on the sofa 


58 


WIIO WAS SHE? 


in the sitting-room, and gravely commenced to define how 
impossible it was for her mother to come back, though she 
should call ever so loud. He might as well have talked to 
the wind. She would not hear him. Rage that he should 
dare to control her at such a time overpowered every other 
emotion, and the moment she found herself on her feet she 
darted away like an arrow. Poor Genie, she was in rare 
need of comfort, but the boy had never liked her well 
enough to sufficiently understand her nature ; besides, he 
was grave, thoughtful, and matter-of-fact himself, and in- 
capable of comprehending an impetuous being like Imo- 
gene. In her present great trouble his placid sympathy 
aggravated her tortured soul past endurance, and she burst 
away from his detaining hand, with fury blazing in her 
eyes, and words of muttered hate blistering on her infant 
tongue. 

Thaddeus, dimly realizing his kindly meant overtures 
futile as regarded their ungrateful object, did not attempt 
to follow her, thinking, perhaps, that a violent grief like 
hers would find its best solace alone. 

Rid of Thad’s unasked condolence, Imogene fled out of 
the house, down through the sunflowers and hollyhocks, 
and hid herself under the great clump of lilacs by the back 
garden fence. Creeping under the dense green leaves at 
the root, where the frost had not been able to penetrate, she 
buried her face in the rank grass, weeping in silent bitter- 
ness, as she settled her bright head on its earthy pillow. 
Every faculty was benumbed by the one great woe, and, 
once alone, she gave her grief full vent, and writhed and 
moaned like a tortured animal. 

“ Oh, mamma, come back ; oh, do come back ! ” was the 
plaintive refrain of each passionate outburst, and they who 
were so solemnly shrouding the mother little dreamed how 
the agonized child was crouching desolately under the lilac. 
The piteous words, “ Oh, I ’m so sorry that I was not always 


WHO WAS SHE? 


59 


good, so dreadful sorry,” breathed up from the grass like 
the mournful echo of a buried heart pleading forgiveness 
from the grave, arrested the attention of one who, of all 
others, was best fitted to administer consolation to the 
bereaved child of Elinor Vale. 

“Won’t you let me be sorry with you, Gypsy?” 

It was Philip Shirley, standing knee-deep in the grass, 
and commiseratingly gazing down at the little figure tum- 
bled all in a bunch under the lilac. There was something 
particularly soothing in his tenderly modulated voice, 
which, never harsh and discordant even in his most bois- 
terous moments, now sounded like sweetest music, coming 
as it did in response to the child’s sad wail of despair. 

Phil, happening to be near Hetty’s much-prized hop-vine 
— you may be sure it was for no good — saw Imogene fly 
to cover, and instantly abandoned his own snug retreat to 
see what was the matter. His active mind at once guessed 
the truth, and half unconsciously he felt that the time to 
be kind to Genie had come. 

At the sound of his familiar tones the girl hushed her 
sobs, and looked at him wistfully through her blinding 
tears. 

“ What ’s the matter, Gypsy ? ” 

There was magic in the deep-set, dark eyes so intently 
looking in her own, and with the desolate cry, “ Oh, Phil, 
my mother is dead!” she threw herself into his arms, 
repeating over and over again the touching words in 
accents so utterly sad, that Phil hardly knew what to say. 
Faster and faster the hot tears rained on his neck ; the 
lithe form trembled from head to foot, and the poor young 
heart throbbed and bounded in time to the terrible mental 
anguish. With both little, tremulous arms clinging fran- 
tically about his short neck, she cried, and shivered, and 
moaned, as if tom by bodily pain too great for mortal 
endurance. 


* 1 


60 WIIO WAS SHE? 

“ Don’t cry so,” pleaded Philip, absently smoothing out 
the great damp tear-spots from her little ruffled apron. 
“ Don’t cry so, Gypsy, and I ’ll tell you something ; and I 
never mean to tell any one but you, for it ’s only about you 
and me.” 

“ But my mother is dead,” reminded Genie, as if it were 
sacrilege to speak of anything else, even though it be the 
sharing of a secret with him, an honor which was wont to 
make her the happiest of beings. 

“ But it ’s about her,” replied Phil, mysteriously. 

“ Oh ! ” said Genie, much relieved, relaxing her arms, 
and allowing the boy to put back her rumpled hair. “ Then 
I’ll listen.” 

“ Well,” began Phil, very confidentially. “ Well, Gypsy, 
I saw your mother the other day ; she sent for me.” 

“ What ! you ? ” 

“Yes, me! and I told her about the sirup, spignet, and 
balsam, and comfrey, you know ; they ’ll cure most coughs, 
but she said they would do her no good, and that in a little 
while she should die.” 

“ And she did not tell me ! Nobody told me ! ” broke 
in Imogene, beginning to cry again. Phil hastened to 
explain : 

“ Why, you were too little, Gypsy ; beside, people never 
tell us about our mothers going to die, you know, or any- 
body that ’s near to us ; they wait till it comes.” 

“ -I can’t bear to think of it. My dear mamma ! She 
will have to be put in the ground now, and covered up 
deep, won’t she, Phil ? ” Both shuddered at this painful 
picture, the youth venturing a faint “ I suppose so ; ” but 
seeing the tears ready to start, he added : 

“But there’s vaults, like houses on top of the ground; 
may be they ’ll put her there.” His idea somewhat com- 
forted little Genie. She was meek enough now, and will- 
ing to listen to anything the boy might say. The stronger 


WHO WAS SHE? 


61 


nature met the strength of hers, and where Thaddeus had 
unconsciously irritated and enraged, Philip soothed and 
calmed. 

“ I ’m sure, if your mother were here this minute, she 
would not like to see you take on so ; and I am sure from 
where she is, she is feeling bad, because you feel so bad.” 
Phil looked up to the clouds, indicating that her spirit 
must be somewhere in that direction. Imogene followed 
his gaze, half believing that her mother’s face was smiling 
on them from the sky. The wistful eyes wandered back to 
her companion. “ Do you think mother is sorry because I 
am so dreadfully unhappy, Phil ? ” 

“ I am sure of it.” 

“ Then I won’t be unhappy another minute,” said Genie, 
determinedly, winking very hard to keep the tears back 
meanwhile. “ Tell me just what you think she would want 
me to do, and I ’ll do it. I would not listen to Thad, but 
I will to you, Phil.” 

“ One can’t help feeling bad,” philosophically admitted 
Philip; “I feel bad myself, and, maybe, it ain’t so long 
ago that I cried, either.” A suspicious twitching about 
the mouth indicated that he was very near indulging in the 
weakness at that moment. 

“ Well, what do you suppose she said to me?” 

Genie shook her head as a sign that she could not tell. 

“ Why, that I was to be kind to you.” 

“ Oh ! did she, Phil ; did she, for true ? ” 

! “Yes, as true as can be; and I promised, honor bright, 
that I would always stand up for you through thick and 
thin. And I always will, Gypsy.” 

Imogene, quietly sitting on the grass before him, with 
her little hands Semurely folded, and the tear-stains yet on 
1 her cheeks, at this gallant speech could restrain her grati- 
tude no longer. “ Oh ! you dear, dear Phil ! ” she cried, 
leaping into his arms, all in a tremble of joy. “ And my 
6 


62 


WHO WAS SHE? 


darling dead mother said that you were to take my part ? 

I told her I liked you ever so much, Phil.” 

“ Yes, she said that, too ; and now I am going to be your 
brother and fight for you, and when I am a man I ’ll take 
care of you. Who knows but some day you ’ll be my wife ; 
then I ’d like to see any one have anything to say.” 

“ Yes,” innocently acquiesced Genie ; “ I ’ll be your wife 
when I ’m as tall as Aunt Ruth. Oh ! won’t it be splen- 
did! And we’ll hunt squirrels and birds’ -nests all day, 
and nobody in the world to scold or make us mind.” 

Phil’s ideas of matrimony were a little more exalted ; 
but he did not care to impart his views just then, although 
it is quite likely they were equally as impracticable as poor 
Gypsy’s own. Just now she was feeling terribly conscience- - 
smitten, for she remembered that on several occasions she 
had treated Phil badly ; and now that he was to love her 
and be her brother, she was anxious to make amends. 
Laying her small face against his broad shoulder, she 
frankly said : 

“ But I have not always been kind to you, Phil, you 
know. I bit you once till the blood came, and only last 
week I slapped you real hard.” 

“ You can bite like a rat, that ’s certain ; but as to slap- 
ping, why, you could not kill a fly,” laughed Phil, squeez- 
ing the mite of a hand playing with his own. 

“ I ’m glad you don’t mind, and I ’ll kiss you now, if you 
like?” 

Without waiting an answer, she put up her cherry mouth. 
Phil was only thirteen, but he felt exceedingly queer about 
the heart. The little, loving thing curled up at his feet 
was such an atom of sparkling grace and beauty, how 
could he but be good to her when she was so fond of him . 
Thus, all unconscious to himself, he met the child’s inno- 
cent lips with a love that combined the three great elements 
of his nature — courage to protect, ambition to elevate, 


WHO WAS SHE? 


63 


and affection to bless the life which from that day was 
completely his own, for good or ill. Time reversed and 
distracted those three godlike virtues ; but under the lilac, 
that hazy October afternoon, they stood grandly forth, un- 
dimmed by ambitious temptations, and uncorroded by 
worldly sins. Of all earthly objects this little dark-browed 
girl was the dearest to him. She lay in his heart of hearts 
a folded bud, awaiting the maturity of manhood to blossom 
into perfection. Philip did not stop to analyze the senti- 
ment that Imogene’s little kiss engendered, but contented 
himself by reiterating his former determination : “ Yes, 
I ’ll always love and be kind to you ; but if I am cross 
sometimes, you must not mind. Now you will promise not 
to cry any more ; I mean, not so hard, for you choked, you 
know, and could n’t stop, and you must do as people say, 
and not get mad and tear about so.” 

“ What l Thad, too ? ” asked Genie, ruefully. 

“ No ; he ain’t people ; neither is that grumbling old 
Hetty. She hates me.” 

“ Then I'll hate her” promptly responded Gypsy. 

“ That ’s right,” lauded Phil. “ You listen to Mrs. Lee, 
though; she’ll never tell you anything but what’s right. 
And now, if you will stand up, I ’ll straighten your dress 
and wipe your face ; it ’s awful teary.” 
i Genie meekly allowed him to arrange her skirts, tipping 
very weakly in the direction he pulled, quite helpless under 
i his vigorous system of “ straightening.” 

Evidently she was deeply impressed with Phil’s new 
1 relation of protectorship, because her mother had sanctioned 
1 it, and her own heart warmly responded, even in its worst 
; fits of rebellion, to everything he said or did ; so it was 
I easy to obey his commands at a time when those of others 
1 would have driven her frantic. 

After being duly wiped up and smoothed, she surprised 
her companion by asking, “ Will you go and see mamma 


64 


WHO WAS SHE? 


with me?” Philip hesitated ; but the sorrowful little face 
turned toward him so confidingly, in its pleading earnest- 
ness, he could not refuse. He felt that his interview with 
Elinor was sacred, and shrank from having blurted about 
the village a conversation that in some mysterious way — 
or it seemed so to him — gave him the right to look after 
Imogene, and, before consenting to grant her request, he 
said: 

“ Gypsy, you will promise never to tell that I am to be 
kind to you, for I know your mother did not mean it to be 
talked about by all the old busybodies in town.” 

Torture could not have forced it from her after that, and 
she replied, most emphatically : 

“No; I’ll never tell. I’ll keep it to myself always. 
Now come, Phil.” 

He took the hand she offered, and together they crept 
from under the. lilacs, and made direct to the house. A 
subdued sound came from the kitchen ; but the sitting-room 
was deserted. Softly they mounted the stairs, Philip’s 
heart bounding thick and fast; Imogene’s sinking faint 
and throbless within her. Twice she essayed to lift the latch ; 
twice her hand drew back. It was almost dark in the pass- 
age, and it was pitiful to see the two white faces standing 
before the door of the east bedroom, with only the sickly 
light of the one dark -curtained window glimmering fit- 
fully over their young forms. As the girl’s courage fal- 
tered the boy’s arose, and, turning his head, (for he 
dreaded the first glimpse of the shrouded figure,) he care- 
fully opened the door. Great was their amazement to find 
the room empty. The windows were up, and the curtains 
swaying pleasantly in the twilight breeze, not in the least 
suggestive of death. The easy-chair was in its usual place, 
and Washington was still being reprimanded for hacking 
the cherry-tree. Everything was just as it used to be, only 
the bed ; that was gone. Philip looked immensely relieved, 


WHO WAS SHE? 


65 


and glanced about quite boldly, considering his recent 
trepidation. “ Where is she?” asked Imogene, huskily; 
“where have they taken my mother?” A wild, sickening 
terror leaped to the child’s heart. Had they buried her so 
soon ? She could account for her sudden disappearance 
from the old familiar room in no other way, and the agony 
expressed in the large black eyes was fearful to see. Philip 
thought he had rather encounter an army of dead faces 
than meet that look again. 

“ Don’t you be frightened, Gypsy. If I had n’t been a 
ninny, I’d have guessed it. Why, don’t you remember, 
they always puts them in the parlor after — after — ” 

Genie did not stop to hear the remainder of the sentence, 
but flitted down stairs. Her companion resignedly fol- 
lowed, wondering why they made houses so dark and un- 
comfortable when people died. The chill and oppressive- 
ness pervading the silent dwelling started great drops of 
perspiration on his brow, and made him long for the cool, 
free air playing merrily with the leaves outside. Phil 
could have faced a lion at the moment, or challenged death 
at the cannon’s mouth ; but this required courage of a very 
different sort— the nerve to look on the dead features of a 
woman, young and fair, who had only a week before kissed 
and caressed him with a tenderness never before known. 
After all, it was love, not fear, that staggered the boy’s 
brave heart, and made him shiver with inexplicable dread. 
But the first timidity was over, and the children entered 
the parlor with less hesitation than they had betrayed up 
stairs. The room, darkened to sombreness, made every 
object for the moment indistinct. “ Dear Phil,” whispered 
Genie, through the gloom. She uttered the words like one 
who did not expect or desire an answer ; indeed, she scarce- 
ly knew that she had spoken. Oh! how still it was? Not 
a breath ; not a motion. “See.” It was Genie’s voice that 
broke the silence. She was pointing to a pale outline in 
6 * 


66 


WHO WAS SHE? 


the dim corner where the shadows lay thickest. “ See, 
Philip, there is my mother.” The dread was worse than the 
reality, for, once in the mysterious presence, the children 
shook off the benumbing feeling which so appals a young 
nature when contemplating in the mind the actual near- 
ness of dea|;h. “Yes, she is here, and we won’t be such 
cowards as to fear her because she is dead. She kissed me 
that day ; did n’t I tell you that t ” Genie shook her head, 
and both stood looking at the quiet sleeper, in awed, won- 
dering silence, that anything once so full of love and life 
could be so utterly rigid and voiceless. 

“ Dear mamma ! and she kissed you when you promised 
to be good to me ? ” 

“Indeed she did, Gypsy, ever so many times; and I cried 
— I could not help it — for she was so sad and tender with 
it all.” 

Philip touched the hands folded on the throbless breast, 
to see if they were really as cold as they looked. The 
few autumn flowers they loosely held, fell away, and 
Imogene sprang quickly to restore them. The mocking 
clasp refused to readily take back its loving trust; and 
while her little fingers were busy with the mother’s poor 
dead hands and the senseless autumn flowers, she said : 

“Dear mamma always thought of me — thought of me 
to the very last.” 

The child appeared ten years older than when she entered 
the room. One could hardly realize that she was the same 
little creature who had escaped from Thaddeus in a passion 
of tears and screams. 

“ My mother is in heaven, Philip, and can love me just 
the same. I don’t feel so bad now ; but it was dreadful to 
see her die; I’ll kiss her good-night, as if she were not 
dead.” 

Leaning over, she pressed her lips on the cold brow, and 
laid her warm cheek against the frozen face, murmuring 


WHO WAS SHE? 


67 


softly, “Good night, mamma!” and, turning to her won- 
dering companion, said, in a satisfied manner : 

“Come, Phil, let’s go; Aunt Ruth, or some of them, 
will be coming in. They try to be kind, but they only tease 
me. Mamma knows how well I love her, for she sees my 
heart now” 

Philip followed her to the door ; but there he.paused and 
glanced back to the shadowy corner. Obeying a sudden 
impulse, he returned ; and where Imogene’s young lips had 
lingered last he pressed his farewell kiss. The door opened 
and closed with cautious sound ; but she who reposed in the 
shadows gave no heed to their careful departure. 

The sun had set long ago, and a ray of moonlight, pene- 
trating the heavy curtains, fell across the motionless feet. 
Higher and higher climbed the solitary moonbeam, until it 
lay on the peaceful brow, radiating like a halo above the 
saintly head. Ah ! who would break such dreamless rest ? 

Imogene astonished everybody by her changed behavior ; 
and when Mrs. Lee asked if she would like to look at the 
dead, she replied, “No,” very short. 

“But she is in the parlor now, Genie, and looking so 
happy and beautiful ! ” 

“I know it,” said the child, briefly; “I’ve been there.” 

Ruth was confounded, and thought the child must be out 
of her senses. 

“ Yes, I ’ve been there and fixed the flowers, Phil and I,” 
she repeated, complacently, furtively eying Thaddeus, to 
see how he received the news of Philip’s share in it. 

“ Why, Genie, we did not hear you,” said Ruth. 

“ I know it, for we didn’t make any noise. We went up 
stairs first, but she was gone. Phil told me where she was,” 
naively explained Genie. 

Mrs. Lee sighed and kissed her, and little Davie shyly 
offered her childish comfort. Farmer Lee took her on his 
knee and called her his wee black-eyed daughter. All these 


68 


WHO WAS SHE? 


more than usual endearments, on David’s part, at least, 
Imogene stoically accepted as part of the calamity that had 
befallen her ; but when Thaddeus offered his matter-of-fact 
consolation, she scornfully turned her back. The only 
request she made was that Philip might sit with her at the 
funeral. Hetty sternly opposed such a preposterous idea 
as having . " that boy ” around at such a solemn time. 
Thaddeus, too, thought the ungainly lad a little out of place, 
and did not hesitate to say so. But Genie was too much 
for them both, and firmly insisted : “ He has the right, Aunt 
Ruth, more than all the world beside, and he shall sit near 
me when my mother is buried.” Mrs. Lee felt the truth 
of this, for Genie had crept to her side when nobody was 
near, and said : “ Aunt Ruth, please don’t tell any one that 
mamma asked to see Phil that day. She said something 
then which -gives him the right to go with me. She knew 
I was fond of him, and, indeed, auntie, he’s always been 
good to me.” Knowing this, Mrs. Lee took sides against 
Thaddeus and Hetty, much as she generally deferred to 
their opinion, and decided that Philip Shirley should be 
bidden to the funeral, and those who did not acquiesce in 
her decision were obliged to make the best of it. During 
the last solemn rites Genie kept near her companion, caus- 
ing everybody to wonder at the singular power of the lad 
over one whom nobody else attempted to manage. 

At last it was over — all the dreary funeral hush and 
stealthy footfall quiet. The children went back to their 
play, their books, and their mischief, and left her who had 
been known in the village as Elinor Yale tranquilly sleep- 
ing alone under the daisies. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


69 


CHAPTER VII. 

WHAT COMES OF CATCHING A “CHIPMUNK.” 

T WICE had the grass been green on Elinor’s grave, and 
life was still going on much in the old way with the 
children of our story. The day we find them, they are 
playing by the roadside, careless and happy. On either 
side of the highway lay Lot Colburn’s fine meadow lands, 
with a patch of buckwheat in full flower at the right, and 
a stretch of rich timber far on the hills to the left. The 
huge gray rock, rising almost perpendicular from the road- 
side, was a favorite resting-place with the Lee children 
when returning from school. Carpeted with thick grass at 
the summit, where its rocky head met and was thinly 
covered by the rich soil, and shaded by a great hickory- 
tree, it made a retreat that would have enchanted the soul 
of an artist or poet. A rail fence, running close against 
the trunk of this mammoth tree, divided the highway from 
the meadow. All along the fence grew a dense thicket of 
elders, interspersed with hazel-bushes and blackberry-vines, 
which had in days gone by been of much peril to Philip’s 
thin trowsers. 

“Oh, Genie, ain’t you glad school’s out, and that we 
are to have such a long, splendid vacation ? ” exclaimed 
Vida, to her somewhat preoccupied companion, perched 
a little above her on the rock. To-day was the last of 
the term, and Vida, who was not over- fond of study, was 
delighted. 

“I don’t know,” rejoined Imogene, indifferently. “I 
like school.” 

“ But the lessons are so hard,” complained the other. 

“ I don’t mind them, and you are as old as I.” 


70 


WHO WAS SHE? 


“ Yes ; but you learn everything so easy. Now, there is 
arithmetic. I can’t do figures.” 

“That’s because you are so stupid, Davie,” was the 
uncomplimentary answer. 

“I know it,” humbly agreed Yida. “And there is the 
multiplication table ; that I can’t learn, only the fives and 
tens ; they ’re easy, but the sevens and nines won’t stay in 
my mind, and they ’re no good anyway.” 

Arithmetic always made poor Davie gloomy, and to de- 
tract from her natural terror of figures she proceeded to 
slowly unfold the napkin in the bottom of their mutual 
dinner-basket, producing therefrom a goodly slice of bread 
and butter. 

“ Won’t you have a piece, Genie ? ” she asked, generously 
proffering to divide the slice by breaking it fairly in two. 

Genie disdainfully shook her head. 

“No; I don’t like bread when it’s been spread since 
morning.” 

“ But I ’ve kept it covered up, and it ’s real nice,” said 
Yida, munching away with infinite relish. “ What makes 
you look so put out? Have you been cross with Philip?” 

“ No, indeed,” curtly replied Miss Genie, pulling at the 
leaves of a stunted mullein that grew beside her in the 
crevice of the rock. One by one, she had picked the tiny 
yellow blossoms, sifting them through her fingers into her 
apron in a very absent and indolent way, much to the dis- 
gust of Yida, who could not refrain from saying, “ How 
can you touch these nasty - smelling mullein - blows ? I 
would n’t have them in my nice, clean apron.” 

“Oh, you need not take me to do about handling them. 
I saw you painting your cheeks with mullein-leaves only 
the other day — you know you did, Yida Lee — and then 
cried because they smarted,” retorted Genie, with spirit. 

Davie fidgeted under this sharp rebuke, and explored the 
depths of her dinner-basket before venturing a reply. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


71 


“ I know I did ; but I ’ll not do it again. Susie John- 
son told me to, and she is a mean girl, for she didn’t tell me 
the fuzz would smart so.” 

“ Oh, you silly ! why, it ’s the fuzz that makes the red 
come, and — and the sting too. Only simple girls paint 
their cheeks,” concluded Genie, complacently patting her 
own, red as June roses, by way of indicating that nature 
alone was the true artist. 

Yida was quite accustomed to being snubbed by her 
sparkling, black-eyed playfellow, and continued to eat her 
bread and butter, pausing every now and then to scrape the 
butter from the centre around the less plentifully supplied 
crusty edges, as a more appetizing way of equalizing it, and 
kicking the toes of her little shoes against the turf in the 
best-natured and happiest manner imaginable. Yet they 
dearly loved each other in their way, just as you have seen 
two sisters of widely different dispositions — the one weak 
and timid, the other strong and self-confident — love and 
reprove alternately. If Genie were cross, Davie patiently 
waited until she became good-natured ; then they laid their 
dear little faces together, just the most loving sisters in the 
world. And though she might bring Vida up with a round 
turn, Imogene would by no means allow any one else to do 
so. And she had soundly boxed Susie Johnson’s ears for 
tempting Davie to paint her cheeks, and scolded Davie for 
being tempted, all the time she was washing off the smart- 
ing mullein-fuzz. 

The reason of Imogene’s present extreme disinclination 
to sympathize with Davie’s school - troubles and dinner- 
basket was due to the deep interest she was taking in Philip 
Shirley’s movements across the road, where he was labori- 
ously endeavoring to capture a chipmunk, which had 
taken refuge in the stone wall. 

The girls, perched on the rock, were interested specta- 
tors of what was going on opposite. Vida secretly hoped 


72 


WHO WAS SHE? 


the little animal would escape, and Genie was only anxious 
for Philip’s success. Unmindful of either their applause 
or censure, Phil tugged and sweated below, with his great 
dog Hero by his side, wagging his shaggy tail in eager 
expectation. Hero was, in his canine way, quite as famous 
as his master, aiding and abetting him in many of his evil 
rambles around the neighborhood ; for Hero could kill a 
chicken, cat, woodchuck, or squirrel at a single bite, and 
without the slightest noise, which was the grand feature in 
Hero’s dissolute character, according to his master’s estima- 
tion of what constituted value in his race. And then his 
patience was something touching to see, especially in the 
case of woodchucks ; he would scratch at the hole all day, 
if Phil were by to cheer him on ; and a cat or a squirrel 
up a tree w T ould rivet his attention for hours together, 
watching with eager eye and watering mouth, and whim- 
pering in rage and grief that he could not get at them. 
Phil thought it a mistake in nature that dogs could not 
climb, when they had sense to look so wishful up a tree, 
for all the world like a boy who was afraid of his trowsers 
and his mother, and the chestnuts and walnuts just ripe 
enough not to fall. 

At the present time, Hero was all excitement, bounding 
over the wall, first on one side, then on the other, to run 
nosing along a rod or two, and then back again, to stand 
whisking his bushy tail, and lolling his great red tongue 
in a perfect ecstasy of dog delight. Occasionally he gave 
a series of short sniffs in the wall, expressive of alertness, 
importing by his quick, suppressed, and irregular barks the 
nearness of the game. 

“ I hope he won’t get it,” said Davie, with a little shiver 
of dread. " Squirrels are so cunning.” 

“ It ain’t a squirrel, it ’s a chipmunk,” corrected Genie, 
looking steadily at the wall. 

“ Well, they are all the same. Father calls them striped 


WHO WAS SHE? 


73 


squirrels, and he knows,” replied Davie, in a convincing 
tone, as if nothing could supersede “ father’s ” knowledge 
in her opinion. 

Imogene did not choose to argue this point of natural 
history w 7 ith Davie, although she had her own mind on the 
subject, Mr. Lee to the contrary. 

In the mean time, Phil had been preparing for immediate 
and brilliant strategy. Having determined, by Hero’s 
ingenious caperings, the exact locality of his diminutive 
prey, he pulled out a sufficient number of stones to admit 
of seeing through the wall at either end of the spot where 
he had located the game. In one opening he plugged 
his jacket, and at the other he posted the well-disciplined 
Hero, commencing a vigorous attack in the centre himself 
with a very sharp stick. With every avenue of escape or 
retreat thus hopelessly cut off, the besieged chipmunk was 
obliged to surrender. With a last desperate effort to make 
off, he attempted to run Hero’s post, but the dog snapped 
him up in a twinkling, and laid him, with a broken back, 
at his master’s feet. 

Phil recovered his jacket, seized his game, and trium- 
phantly clambered up to the girls, entirely forgetting to re- 
place the stones in the much-injured wall. Hero, with the 
look and air of a supremely happy and self-satisfied dog, 
laid himself down at the foot of the hickory for a nap, not, 
however, without lifting his head several times toward 
1 the hazel and elder bushes, suspiciously glancing askant 
! through the dense foliage, as if something might be con- 
! cealed there. 

Imogene being some little distance higher than her less 
I aspiring companion, Philip stopped in his ascent, and, as 
was quite natural, showed Davie his little victim. 

Inconsiderate Genie did not like this. She thought he 
! ought to Show it to her first, and, much offended, she turned 
all her attention in the opposite direction. 

7 


74 


WHO WAS SHE? 


Vida took the animal in her lap, and softly stroked the 
pretty black stripes. Her tender little heart could not bear 
to see anything wantonly hurt, and her eyes filled with 
compassionate tears on feeling its poor little broken back 
under the pretty black stripes, and she said earnestly, “ I 
am so sorry you killed it, Philip. Such a beautiful little 
creature. See what bright large eyes, just like black 
beads, and they won’t stay shut either, but look up so sorry 
like when I take my finger off of them ; and only a moment 
ago he was running so nimbly on the fence. Dear little 
feet, they ’ll never scamper any more ! It ’s wicked to kill 
such pretty creatures, for God made them on purpose to 
play around in the sunshine and be happy, and I know he 
is angry to have them hurt.” 

“ Well, if it ’s wicked, I ’m sorry,” said Phil, penitently. 
“ They do look better skittering along on the walls and 
fences than they do so still and limpsy. But it ’s all Hero’s 
fault. He won’t let ’em alone,” hypocritically blamed 
Phil. “ Look here, you rascal, how dared you kill this, 
eh ? ” holding up the chipmunk to Hero’s indifferent gaze, 
who bent back one ear, and winked reproachfully from 
under his half-closed eyelids at such an unjust reprimand ; 
but considering it of no further notice, he gaped lazily, and 
stretched his nose along the cool earth to enjoy another nap. 

“ Why, what have you done with his beautiful tail?” ex- 
claimed Vida, suddenly discovering that the chipmunk was 
minus that showy appendage. 

Now the truth is, as every schoolboy knows, that chip- 
munks’ tails are very indifferently put on, and this par- 
ticular <5he having evaded Phil several times at close quar- 
ters, during the stone-wall encounter, had lost that graceful 
and attractive portion of his anatomy early in the engage- 
ment. But Davie was not aware of this fact, and repeated 
her question, looking at Hero as if he might be responsible 
foi; the missing member. 


WHO WAS she! 75 

“ I suppose I pulled it off,” replied Phil ; “ but it don’t 
hurt ’em any.” 

“ Don’t it ? Why, that ’s nice,” said Davie, greatly 
comforted by the knowledge. 

“Not a bit. Sometimes the chipmunks don’t know it 
themselves,” confidentially explained Phil, though how he 
came to know was quite a mystery to confiding little Yida. 

“ And is this bit of white thread all his tail hung on ? ” 
she inquired, in tearful interest, designating the slender tip 
of the animal’s mutilated tail. 

“ Yes,” said Phil ; “ the bushy part is all gammon ; and 
if you so much as touch ’em they’re off; and squirrels 
without tails ain’t much.” 

u That is true,” acknowledged his listener. “ But I ’in 
sorry it’s dead, and if you were my brother, I ’d beg you 
never to hurt one again.” 

“Well, you can ask me if I’m not your brother; I 
shan’t eat you,” rejoined the lad, impetuously. During all 
this time Imogene had not once spoken, but she had been 
listening intently, and her heart swelled at this. Was he 
going to be her brother, too ? A jealous pang darted to 
her heart, and she felt like screaming under the new, fierce 
pain. Davie had father, mother, and home, but she had 
only — Philip. Unconscious of the tumult raging in her 
breast, Yida went on, innocently : 

“ Then, Phil, I ’ll make believe you are my brother, and 
ask you to never be cruel to anything that God has put in 
the woods and meadows ; for mother says, 4 He loves them, 
and provides for their wants just as He does for us.’ ” 

“ All right,” assented the boy, a roguish twinkle gleam- 
ing in the deep-set eyes. “ You hear, Hero ; woodchucks 
are played out,” glancing at that incredulous animal, with 
his tongue in his cheek. Then his twinkling eyes went up 
to Imogene, and his feet also. 

44 You don’t care for a dead chipmunk, do you, Gypsy ?” 


76 


WHO WAS SHE? 


She would not look nor answer, but kept her face steadily 
turned away. 

“ What, are you sulky, Gyp?” he asked, maliciously. 

“ I hope Mr. Colburn will have you punished for tearing 
down his wall, that I do. And I am not such a fool as to 
cry about a poor, mean, little chipmunk,” she burst out, 
spitefully. 

“ Well, you need not be so spunky about it, Miss Spit- 
fire ; I did n’t expect you would cry, for you have such a 
tough heart,” he retorted. 

Imogene’s lips quivered at the taunt, and she twisted her 
fingers in her apron like one suffering intense pain, but 
her tongue did not lose its bitterness. 

“I would not be so mean as to do a thing and then 
pretend to be sorry, when you* know you will kill just 
the first squirrel you see ; and Davie is a dunce to believe 
you.” 

“ Oh, what a shrewd one ! ” with an admiring nod and 
wink. “ You are not to be easily woolled;and as you ’re so 
smart, you shall have the chipmunk. There,” and Phil 
derisively tossed the animal into her lap. Imogene was 
furious. She thought he was making fun of her for Vida’s 
amusement, and, snatching up the offending object, she 
hurled it against the stone wall across the road. Philip 
instantly sprang after it, enraged beyond words, and with 
all his strength threw it back, directly at her. It struck 
her full in the forehead, leaving a single great drop of 
blood on the smooth whiteness of the perfect brow. 

From being so freely used as an impromptu weapon of 
offence and defence, the little striped squirrel was consider- 
ably damaged about the head, and it was the crimson from 
his battered physiognomy that left the woful stain on Imo- 
gene’s young brow. 

Davie thought she would be very angry at- the atrocious 
insult ; but the first fury was over, and, instead of dashing 


WHO WAS SHE? 


77 


it back, she tenderly laid the poor, bruised little creature 
on the grass, and covered it nicely over with mullein-leaves. 

“ Why, there is blood on your face, Genie,” cried Yida, 
in alarm, thinking she had been injured by the blow. 

“ Yes ; and I am glad of it,” said the boy, determined to 
brave it out. 

Imogene’s haughty lips curled in childish scorn, flashing 
down on him the full light of the large, proud eyes. She 
cried, “You need not boast, Phil Shirley. Who cares for 
a drop of blood ? I don’t. Why should you care ? Blood 
will always follow your footsteps. And you know, Davie, 
it takes brave boys to fight little girls.” Her sarcasm cut 
him to the quick, and with that bright, red spot on her fore- 
head, he dared not look at the scornful face ; so he walked 
sullenly to the fence, and commenced to cut a straggling 
initial on the topmost rail, with a knife that looked as if it 
might have been in existence long before its present owner. 
At this timely juncture a rumbling of wheels heralded the 
rapid approach of a light wagon, and immediately after a 
pair of gray roadsters trotted around the curve. 

“ Oh, here comes our team, Genie,” cried Davie, gleefully. 
“ My ! but won’t we have a ride home ? ” 

Sure enough, they were David Lee’s horses, driven by 
Mr. Thaddeus Buggies. He drew up opposite the girls, 
and called out, “ Come, jump in, and I ’ll take you home.” 
Yida instantly sprang up, for Thad’s word was her law, and 
began to scramble down the bank. 

“ Come, Genie, let ’s go with Thad. Phil is so wicked he 
may stay alone.” But Imogene sat still, quite ignoring 
the gray team, and Phil kept severely on with his initial. 

Davie’s voice again sounded up the bank. She was close 
beside the wagon, swinging her dinner-basket in one hand, 
and beckoning with the other : 

“ Come, sis, Thad’s in a hurry.” 

“ I don’t want to,” was answered from the top of the rock. 

7 * 


78 


WHO WAS SHE? 


“ Oli, do, Genie.” 

“I say I don’t want to.” The words tumbled down 
sharply, but the other was persistent. 

“ Do, please come.” 

“ I shan’t” echoed the voice above. 

The decisive reply completely silenced Vida, arid, with- 
out more entreaty, she clambered up beside Thaddeus, who 
put his arm around the little, restless form to keep her from 
falling out, for her feet were dangling six inches from the 
bottom of the wagon, and Thad was always very careful of 
this sweet, little, happy-hearted Vida Lee. 

“ Is not Imogene coming ? ” asked Thaddeus. 

“ No ; she says she won’t,” said Davie, dismally twisting 
the strings of her highly starched sun-bonnet. 

“ She is cross again, I suppose. What is the matter with 
her?” impatiently inquired the youth, gathering up the 
reins. 

" Phil hit her with the chipmunk.” 

“ With the what ? ” 

“ Why, with the chipmunk he killed just now.” 

The youth’s brow clouded. 

“You ought not to play with that bad boy, Vida; he is 
a naughty, rude companion for such little girls as you and 
Imogene.” 

“ But he has promised to be good, and never kill another 
squirrel nor anything, and he is not bad to me; and I don’t 
like to leave Genie, for we were to dress our dolls this even- 
ing,” pleaded the child, a deal of sadness in her sunny eyes. 

“ Well, I am sorry, pet, but if she will not come, she will 
not, and I have no time to wait her pleasure ” — resolutely 
starting the grays. 

Vida urged no more, but she was feeling very uncom- 
fortable, and her little pink and white face kept looking 
back until lost in the windings of the road. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


79 


CHAPTER VIII. 


REPENTANCE. 



iHIL waited until the last faint sound of the receding 


JL wheels died away, and, still hacking at the rail, with 
his back turned toward her, said, with very strong emphasis, 
“ You are not a nice-behaved girl, Miss Gypsy Vale, I can 
tell you, and I don’t like you.” 

“ I don’t care,” glancing furtively at him. 

“You made Davie feel real bad.” 

“ I don’t care,” with a deeper frown and more spiteful 
than before 

“ Well, J’d be ashamed to say so, I would,” piously lift- 
ing the hand that held the knife, as if her arrant ingrati- 
tude were something he could never vindicate. 

“You, indeed,” sneered Genie; “why, you are wickeder 
than me ; you know you are.” 

Phil did not take the trouble to deny the assertion, and 
tormentingly continued his laudations of Davie, in a tone 
so exceedingly tender that it galled the very soul of this 
poor, jealously angry listener. 

“ Davie is a good little girl, she is, and I like her. I like 
her better than you, old ugly.” 

“If you think so much of her, what did you speak to me 
for about your old chipmunk? Did you think that J’d 
listen after she ’d been told everything ? No, I’d have died 
first, Phil Shirley ! ” cried Genie, clenching her hands so 
tightly in her apron that they threatened to tear it in pieces. 
Every inch of her little body was quivering with rage, 
mingled with a flood of passionate sorrow and bitterness 
that he should prefer any one to her. 

Her words came like a new revelation to Philip. He 


80 


WHO WAS SHE? 


had intended to irritate her by his praises of Davie, and in 
his aggravating way deliberately set out to “ get her spunk 
up, and pay her off for being so mean,” as he termed it. But 
he did not dream that it was his innocent attentions to 
Davie that at first inspired her anger. The knowledge 
pleased him hugely. Here was a grand opportunity for 
showing his power. Genie must be punished for being such 
a goose. His sharp, black eyes opened to their fullest ex- 
tent, and a low whistle of astonishment caused Hero to lift 
his nose inquiringly. Phil gave a parting lunge at the rail, 
slowly doubled up his jack-knife, dropped it to the lowest 
depths of his capacious pocket, and circumspectly advanced 
a few steps nearer his companion, who stubbornly pretended 
not to see him, and provokingly cried out, in a taunting 
voice: “Oh, ho! and so, Miss Gypsy, you are jealous — that’s 
it, spitfire. Shame on you ! I ’d be so ashamed, if I were a 
girl ! ” 

This brought the tears, and she hung her head, too hurt 
and miserable for a reply; the bright drops falling fast 
and heavy in her lap. Phil’s heart relented, but she must 
be punished, and he continued in a somewhat different 
strain : 

“Now, look here, haven’t I always stood up for you, 
Gypsy ? ” 

“Yes,” hesitatingly acknowledged Genie. 

“ Haven’t I always licked everybody that plagued you ? ” 

“Ye-s-s,” faintly. 

“ Have n’t I always divided with you ? ” 

“ Y es,” still more faintly. 

“ And since I said I would, up to now, have n’t I always 
thought most of you ? ” 

“ Yes, Phil,” very contritely. 

“ Then why did you twit me of fighting little girls ? You 
said a false thing then, now did n’t you ? ” 

Genie, feeling the force and justice of these awful ques- 


WHO WAS SHE? 


81 


tions, hitched a little farther away from him, and fingered 
the hem of her apron in silence. 

“ Now own up, Gypsy,” advised Phil, severely — “ own 
up that you were jealous because I showed Davie the 
squirrel first. It was selfish and cross of you, Miss, that it 
was, and nothing else.” Imogene was conscious-smitten at 
the enormity of her sins, as spread before her by the relent- 
less Philip, and meditated instant flight as the only means 
to rid herself of his terrible rebukes, which, to her, were 
the most fearful that ever fell on mortal ear. 

“ Don’t tease me, Phil,” she pleaded, “ I feel so bad. I 
guess I ’m sick, and I am going to run right home just as 
fast as I can.” She jumped to her feet, and began to tie on 
, her hat. 

“ No, you are not,” said Phil, snatching it from her hand. 
“You are not going one step until you own up.” Had it 
been Thaddeus Ruggles speaking, she would have struck 
him in the face, and spit at him her disregard of his author- 
ity ; but it was Philip Shirley, and she trembled instead. 

“ Own up now,” again sternly commanded the lad. “ I 
won’t let you go home till you do. No, not if you should 
; cry your eyes out.” He had never been so savage with her 
I before, and poor Genie’s heart quaked. 

Dropping down on the ground, she hid her burning face, 
afraid to look into the determined eyes flashing above her. 
“ Oh, let me go home ; please do” she begged in a smothered 
voice from the grass. “ My head aches so, and I feel so bad. 
Do let me go, Phil.” 

“ Not till you have owned up. You know I won’t go 
i back on that, Gypsy, if you begged from now to Christmas.” 

“ You know I don’t like to be slighted,” cautiously con- 
; ceded the smothered voice. Genie felt that he was in dread- 
I ful earnest, and that she must admit something. 

| “Well, who has slighted you?” questioned Phil, not a 
j whit mollified by her half concession. Gypsy considered 


82 


WHO WAS SHE? 


this blunt interrogation unanswerable, from the fact that if 
she ventured to define the nature of the slight more clearly, 
it would be just the acknowledgment he was bent on com- 
pelling her to make, and she was not yet prepared for her 
entire capitulation. But it was so dreadful to have Philip 
angry with her, that she was willing to compromise the 
matter to an amicable settlement, and slipping her little 
hand in his, to add the more force, if possible, to her en- 
treaty, she said, with her face still in the grass : 

“ Don’t ask me in that way, and I will.” Philip was 
quite ready to modify his demand, for he was tired of pain- 
ing the little fury, when her voice choked itself in tears, 
and she lay humble and shivering at his feet ; therefore it 
was a great relief to say more kindly, almost tenderly : 

“ Well, Gyp, now was n’t you jealous ? ” Philip was sit- 
ting a little above her on the grass, so that she had to reach 
the small trembling hand up to him, an effort that the lad 
well knew cost her pride and temper a great deal, and the 
slight, encouraging squeeze he gave the dainty fingers 
doubtless prompted her to stealthily peep at him from under 
the shelter of her arm. The strong face was firm as iron, 
and Genie withdrew her glance in hopeless misery. She 
was certain that he would never forgive her, but the change 
in his tone made her forget it, and brought her instantly to 
her feet. 

“ What was it, Gypsy ? ” The voice was wholly sweet 
and tender this time, and with her warm, impetuous heart 
on her lips, she knelt down beside him, folded her two pretty 
hands on his knee, and looking up earnestly in his face, said 
simply, “ You know.” 

“ Of course I do,” replied the lad, delighted that he had 
so completely conquered; “you were as jealous as an old 
hen, and you are such a pepper-pod.” 

Genie’s curls, from contact with the earth, had picked up 
a dozen or more of the scattered mullein “ blows,” which 


WHO WAS SHE? 


83 


seemed irretrievably tangled in the black, glistening mass, 
much to Phil’s dismay, for he was proud of her witching hair, 
and somehow his mind dimly associated mullein-blows with 
burdock burrs. He vividly remembered that he had once 
thoroughly adorned a confiding playfellow’s head with the 
latter, and that in consequence every lock was necessarily 
severed as close as the sensitiveness of the scalp would per- 
mit. For several minutes he was busily occupied in pick- 
ing the tiny yellow blossoms from Genie’s wavy ringlets, 
she all the time quite mute, and still as a mouse under his 
hands. Phil’s touch was always like a caress to her, and 
she accepted it as you have seen a vicious horse grow mild 
and manageable under a gentle voice and stroke. 

“ That spot of dry blood looks ugly on your forehead ; 
let me rub it off*,” said Phil, very generously considering 
how it came there. 

Genie quickly produced her handkerchief; there was a 
little remorse in the sight of it, for Davie had given it to 
her ; and after moistening the corner of it with his tongue, 
Phil gravely proceeded to efface the “ ugly ” stain. 

“ You like me now, don’t you ? ” asked Genie, anxiously. 

“ Of course I do.” 

“ Better than Davie ? ” the little face lifted eagerly to 
read the answer in his eyes. 

“ You know I do, and always will ; that was only say- 
so,” replied Phil, convincingly stopping every other word 
to moisten the handkerchief. “ There now, it is all off, and 
I’m not such a bad fellow after all, am I now, if I do kill 
chipmunks ? ” 

Imogene was quite as happy in her defeat as Philip was 
in his victory, and all the old child-love and faith flowed 
warmly back to her heart again, and the fierce temper and 
passion of her nature lulled itself once more to quiet in her 
bosom. 

“Yes, indeed you are good,” she whispered affectionately, 


84 


WHO WAS SHE? 


rubbing her soft cheek against his rough sleeve ; “ and when 
I am at my very worst, I love you , Phil.” 

The boy doubtless thought this exceedingly gratifying to 
his self-vanity, and continued to play with the dark rings 
of hair on her forehead like one who had a right to kiss or 
cuff her at pleasure. But the lad’s mind was taking a 
stride in advance of his years, and he asked rather wist- 
fully : 

“ Do you think you will love me as well as now, when 
you are a woman, Gypsy ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, Phil, indeed I will ! Maybe I ’ll love you 
better then,” innocently replied the child, her large young 
gaze fixed lovingly upon him, as if to live and not love 
Phil Shirley were impossible. 

“ But some day I may go away ; what will you do when 
I am gone ? Forget me, eh ? ” 

The boy looked very much as if she would not, and 
Genie looked very much frightened at the bare suggestion. 

“ Going away ! Where ? ” she whispered, folding both 
hands over his arm and creeping closer to him. 

“ Why, to do for myself. I ’ve been thinking about it 
this long time. I have made up my mind to be a soldier ; 
march after the drum, r-r-rat-tat-tat — fight — kill — win 
— and all that sort of thing, you know,” replied Phil, 
enthusiastically, imitating the roll of an imaginary drum, 
and the " zip ” of visionary bullets, to the infinite conster- 
nation of his little listener. The bold decision, delivered in 
so warlike a manner, almost took away her breath ; but 
after a moment’s deep reflection, she seemed to think that 
it was only one of Phil’s “ say-sos,” and said brightly : 

“You forget that soldiers are sent away off to some grand 
school to learn how to kill people ; and the side that kills 
the most, that ’s victory. My history says so, and soldiers 
are taught how to slay with cannons, and guns, and pistols, 
and — and swords,” gravely enumerating these murderous 


WHO WAS SHE? 


85 


weapons on the tips of her fingers. “ Don’t you remember 
Lawrence Parker went to this great school, and came back 
in gray clothes that were awful tight for him, and then 
they sent him away off, oh ! ever and ever so far, among 
the wicked Indians ? ” 

“ Why, that ’s the fun of it, killing Injuns,” sanguina- 
rily remarked Phil. “ What ’s the good of being a soldier 
if you don’t fight? and soldiers don’t have to go to any 
grand school, either ; anybody can be a private ; only the 
officers go to the military school. They non-commission 
up to lieutenants, and if they will give me half a chance 
I ’ll soon be a corporal, and a sergeant next. I have read 
all about the different ranks. Sergeants sometimes have 
command of ten men, and make jolly fights on their own 
hooks. You can just bet that if I go into the army, I’ll 
win up to the shoulder-straps anyway.” 

“ And leave me ! Oh, Phil ! ” The little face went 
down to his knee, the black eyes blinded with tears, and 
the rosy lips trembling in grief. 

“Don’t cry, Gypsy, for I’ll come back for you. You 
will be a woman in eight more years, and then I ’ll take 
you with me,” comforted the lad, thoroughly believing, in 
youth’s simplicity, all he said. * 

“ Oh ! how kind of you,” cried Genie, putting her arms- 
about his neck in the excess of her gratitude. Suddenly a 
new fear entered her mind, and she questioned doubtingly : 
“ But will we be just the same when we are grown up ? 
You are ’most a man, and I am such a little girl. I dare 
not think ahead so many years,” sighed the child, looking 
down despairingly at her little figure, and inwardly wishing 
it were as long as its shadow on the rock, which was some 
fifteen feet. 

“ Well, you need n’t worry yourself yet ; I may not go 
for a long time ; but when I do, don’t you be surprised, 
that ’s all, and be hurt, and say I didn’t tell you; and mind 
8 


86 WHO WAS SHE? 

you, keep it to yourself,” soothed and coiumanded the boy 
simultaneously. 

Imogene was never so happy as when sharing a secret \ 
with Philip, and the knowledge that he had voluntarily 
intrusted so important a one to her keeping took away half 
the sorrow it had caused her. She felt very proud of his 
confidence, and purred around him like an affectionate kit- 
ten, with all the scratch and spirit sheathed in the velvet 
softness of her love. 

Ah ! w T oe for you, Philip Shirley, when you bow that 
beautiful head in the dust of its own humiliation, and 
arouse that proud heart to the full anger of its insulted 
love! Neither dreamed that their path would so soon 
divide, and that never, oh ! never again, during the sunny 
days of their childhood, were they to linger under the mov- 
ing shade of the old hickory and premise sweet things of 
the future. 

“ It is nearly sundown ! ” cried Philip, critically noting 
the western sky. “ Come, get your hat. There, I tied a 
hard knot that time.” This last referred to the green " 
strings of Gypsy’s straw hat, which he had kindly tied in 
half a dozen of the hardest kind of knots under her chin. I 
Lifting her like a passive doll, he slid down the bank, 
safely depositing her on the short grass of the roadside. 
Hero scampered after them at full tilt, and the lone old 
rock stood deserted. Slowly along the road the two figures 
made their way, followed by the great clumsy dog ; Philip 
holding her hand, and she trotting by his side, the green 
ribbons of her hat fluttering in the light breeze, the sum- 
mer leaves tipped with fading sunlight, and the scent of 
buckwheat in all the air. Oh ! remember it, man and 
woman, when ye shall be widely sundered, remember this 
scene and hour, and turn back forgivingly to its truth and 
innocence ! 

Five minutes after their forms disappeared, a fine-faced, 


WHO WAS SHE? 


87 


elderly gentleman emerged from the hazel thicket, and 
sprang over the fence. He paused before the visible traces 
of Philip’s piratical jack-knife. “ P. S., and very well 
cut,” muttered this genteel individual, commendingly, ad- 
vancing, as he spoke, and lightly touching the discarded 
body of the chipmunk with the toe of his highly polished 
boot. “ Well, little folks,” he soliloquized, one hand deep 
in his pocket, and his eyes bent on the ground, in a reflec- 
tive attitude, “ I see you have your troubles as well as older 
people. Stopped my water-pipes, confound him ! but the 
scamp has a grand intellect, nevertheless, and he hopes to 
be a corporal ; ah ! his ambition flies high — a sergeant 
and ten men — hum. He showed the skill of a general in 
the capture of this little animal ” — turning it over with 
his foot. “ He is such a rascal and nuisance to the whole 
village ; by Jove, I ’ll put the young villain in training; he 
will be a credit to the army ; but that witch of a girl, with 
her infant form and woman’s heart, will she get over the 
pain of parting with him ? The fair-liaired one was David 
Lee’s daughter — nice man, um! constituent — but the 
dark face of the Gypsy is all beauty and fire ; character 
there, too, of a lofty type. I don’t remember of ever 
having seen the child before. I ’d n6t be apt to forget so 
striking a countenance. Belongs in the village, I Suppose?” 
A thoughtful whistle ended the summary. From this ran- 
dom self-communing it was quite evident that he had been 
a close spectator of the little drama enacted under the 
hickory, and that he was deeply impressed by the touching 
simplicity and strong affection exhibited in both impetuous 
natures, for he kept muttering, even after he commenced 
his walk to the village. “ She is a bright, artless creature ; 
jealous, though, as ten furies; and he has a fine head, good 
eye, and is longing to be a corporal — ha ! ha ! ” The gen- 
teel individual laughed softly, apparently greatly pleased 
with his mental resolves, and leisurely walked away. 


88 


WHO WAS SHE? 


CHAPTER IX. 

PHILIP ENTERS UPON HIS CAREER. 

L IKE most large towns, Alden had its great man, no less 
a personage than the Honorable Lot Colburn, Member 
of Congress, who, of course, vastly outranked the lawyer, 
doctor, and minister of the village, important as were the 
functions of those august gentlemen in its rural society. 
The Honorable Lot had been twice elected to Congress, and 
in the House was considered a leading and superior man. 
Affable in manners, and dignified in speech, he was the 
pet of his district, and whatever he said or did was sure to 
meet the entire approbation of the community. Mr. Col- 
burn spent the winter in Washington, but his summers were 
invariably passed wfith his Alden constituency. His spa- 
cious and well-appointed residence seldom boasted visitors, 
either of the neighborhood or elsewhere, for the honorable 
member was a widower, and his only daughter, Olive, a con- 
firmed invalid. Lame from her infancy, the poor girl shrank 
from society, and hid her misfortune in the seclusion and 
quiet of her pleasant home. Everybody said that her 
father’s devotion was something wonderful, for, although in 
the prime of life, for the sake of this sad, pale, affiicted 
daughter, he had never married — a fact which a score of 
Alden belles privately deplored, secretly wishing that Olive 
were less fragile or her father less devoted. Some there 
were who accused the Hon. Lot Colburn of being eccentric, 
and given to doing queer things in a queer way that was 
quite puzzling to the obtuse villagers, who, while they ap- 
plauded, inwardly wondered. But Lot Colburn did not 
mind. Why need he ? Firmly established in the hearts 
and confidence of the people, his opinions and eccentricities 


WHO WAS SHE? 


89 


passed without question, and were often wisdom in an outre 
garb. He was exceedingly neat in dress, from the tie of 
his cravat to the tip of his boots. His slightly gray side- 
whiskers faultlessly trimmed, and chin and lips smoothly 
shaved, gave him the appearance of a scrupulously genteel 
man — as particular regarding the fit of his coat as he was 
precise in his political speeches and his every-day English. 
He was fond of lonely rambles through the woods and fields, 
and in the habit of taking solitary and frequent walks 
around his extensive estate. A fine field of corn or wheat 
was a perpetual pleasure to him, and the ripening grain of 
the harvest lots possessed a silent and never-wearying charm 
to the scholarly statesman that few natures were capable of 
understanding. It was this gentleman’s wall that Philip 
had unceremoniously pulled down, and forgotten to put up, 
in pursuit of the chipmunk. It was his rail that the un- 
scrupulous youth had hacked, and, in short, it was this dis- 
tinguished individual himself who emerged from the hazel 
thicket, and meditatively watch the lad and lass go down 
the dusty road. 

He was sitting alone in his handsome library on the fol- 
lowing day, when a servant entered and announced briefly : 
“ The boy you want to see, sir, is in the hall. I had hard 
work to get him here ; suspects it ’s a trick on him for some 
of his devilments, I suppose, and may bolt any minute, sir.” 

“ Show him in, Sam,” said Mr. Colburn, shoving aside- 
the huge folio he was reading, preparatory to giving audi- 
ence to the bolter in the hall. 

Sam promptly obeyed, and immediately ushered in his 
wily charge, who was none other than Philip Shirley, with 
an extra rent in his jacket, and a wicked twinkle in his 
black, audacious eyes, mentally concluding “that if Lot 
Colburn was fixing to trap him, the gay old honorable 
would find him up to snuff in just the little half of a second.” 
Sam shut the door, with a dubious shake of his head that 
8 * 


90 


WHO WAS SHE? 


was ominous of no good, and Philip modestly leaned against 
the wall, curious to know what was wanted of him, dimly 
divining that it must be the injured stone wall. He nar- 
rowly watched the eccentric member from beneath his pro- 
jecting brows, and the more he looked the more certain he 
became that it was the wall. He also called to mind sundry 
other depredations, more or less damaging to the honorable 
member’s personal property, and, in consequence, had seri- 
ous misgivings as to the honorable member’s friendly in- 
tentions. 

Mr. Colburn, who never did anything in a hurry, slowly 
ran his fingers a couple of times through his dark hair, 
slightly frosty about the temples, but soft and abundant. 
Phil secretly wondered if that was his style when going in 
for a smashing speech before the House. Then he deliber- 
ately settled his neat ebon-rimmed eye-glass astride his well- 
shaped nose, and coolly proceeded to take a careful survey 
of his uncouth and extremely unwilling visitor. Young 
Shirley stood this minute scanning admirably, not at all 
abashed by the critical and prolonged gaze of the member’s 
keen, steel-gray eyes. 

It was the veritable Phil Shirley, of eight years ago, with 
the same massive head and broad shoulders of a man, and 
nothing in the way of legs. Deprived of a neck, his head 
had the appearance of being set square on his solid shoulders, 
like an addition on a rudely-put-together house — the same 
watchful dark eyes, ever on the alert, and bristling crop of 
close-cut hair. Some people would have pronounced him 
a very' unprepossessing youth, of no earthly use in the 
world, only to harass and torment well-disposed people out 
of all patience. But the member thought differently, and 
seemed to be perfectly satisfied with the boy’s personal 
appearance. Drawing a long breath, he said, interroga- 
tively: “Well, sir?” 

“Yes, thank you, sir ; quite well,” politely answered Phil, 


WHO WAS SHE? 


91 


pinching the rim of his battered hat bashfully, an excess 
of modesty which the snap in his eye plainly refuted. Mr. 
Colburn understood it and smiled, walking twice up and 
down before renewing the conversation. 

“ How old are you ? ” 

“ Fifteen, sir.” 

“ Hum ! you don’t look like it,” mused his interlocutor, 
again running his eyes over the lad’s stunted figure. “ Y ou 
are a queer-looking boy ; nature seems to have tumbled you 
together anyhow. Nothing about you appears to balance. 
Physically you are a decided failure ; but mentally — ah ! 
there, sir, I have hopes of you. Now, my boy, if you had 
your choice in selecting a profession in life, what would it 
be?” 

“ A soldier, sir,” promptly replied Phil, with kindling 
eyes and a quick lifting of his head. 

“ Very good,” said the member, approvingly. “ You are 
called a pretty rough, wild sort of a boy here in Alden, I 
believe.” 

“ Rather,” was the dubious answer, delivered without the 
least hesitation, and accompanied by a sly glance that con- 
tained more meaning than words. 

“ Good again ; not that I commend your wild acts, but 
I like your frankness. The village wants to get rid of you, 
and you want to get rid of the village — that’s about it, eh ? ” 

“Yes, sir ; you have hit it. I think I will be as glad to 
go as the village will be glad to have me go. Few old shoes 
they will throw after me, sir ; and little do I care for it, 
either,” said Phil, nodding defiantly toward the steeple of 
Alden’s church, as if it were associated with the malice of his 
worst enemies. The spire was just visible from the library 
window, and unconsciously Lot Colburn’s eyes lighted in 
that direction. 

“ Y ou should not be vindictive, Philip ; you see, I have 
had occasion to remember your name and am inclined to 


92 


WHO WAS SHE? 


think you richly merit the indignation of a great many 
people hereabouts. But that’s not the question. I sent 
for you to make you an offer. How would you like to go 
to West Point ? You want to be a soldier. They will make 
you a first-class one there, and afterward send you out on the 
plains to skin Indians by way of practically finishing your 
education. How do you like the proposition ? ” 

Philip, for once in his life, was so utterly astounded that 
for the moment he could not reply. The color went and 
came so rapidly that his tanned cheeks were alternately red 
and pale, with the fluctuating emotions stirring his sturdy 
heart to its utmost bottom. 

“ Oh, sir,” he began, his voice a little tremulous, and at its 
most melodious pitch, “ Oh, sir, are you in earnest ? I know 
you have the power — it ’s the Congressmen as do it. But 
I did n’t believe anything so good could ever come to me.” 

“ Rest assured that I am in earnest, and your name shall 
be entered for this year. In two months, hold yourself 
ready. West Point will give you a pair of shoulder-straps 
to start with ; you must win the rest yourself.” 

“ I ’ll do it, sir. I know I ’ll win, and I ’ll send my first 
colors to you. Trust me, but I ’ll wear the best sword in 
the army, sir, if hard fighting will gain it,” cried Phil, all 
the latent ambition of his soul leaping to his sparkling eyes. 
“ If they ’ll only shove me into plenty of fights, I ’ll show 
you what the worst boy in Alden is made of. That ’s all 
I ’ll ask of the United States — plenty of tough old fights.” 

“You have a boy’s enthusiasm, but I suppose a sage would 
say it foreshadowed the man’s purpose and ability,” replied 
Lot Colburn. “ You will have to study hard, and leave off 
your wild pranks, for a military school is a very strict one, 
and disobedience is irredeemable disgrace. The first prin- 
ciple of a military calling is to obey. I trust your good sense 
and eager desire to become a good officer will tell you how 
to act in a matter where everything depends on exemplary 


WHO WAS SHE? 


93 


conduct. I offer you this cadetship after due consideration 
as to its wisdom on my part, and its worthiness on yours ; 
and as far as I am able to judge, I do not think I have 
erred. The motive which prompted me to select you as a 
fitting boy for so high a distinction — remember, I may be 
placing the future welfare of the nation in your keeping 
— is my full conviction that you will be a credit to me, an 
1 honor to your country and yourself. See that you do not 
disappoint me.” 

Philip had some good and rare qualities, and one of the 
noblest now asserted itself. 

“ I can’t accept your offer, sir, without first telling you 
that I never hesitated to play a trick on you when I could. 
It was I who stopped your water-pipes and overflowed the 
fountain. It was I who egged the chairman of the meeting 
when you spoke a few weeks ago in the village. And only 
yesterday I tore down your stone wall in digging out a chip- 
munk. But I ’ll go right now and put that up,” said he, 

: candidly confessing his faults as rapidly as he could bring 
them to mind, and starting for the door at the last, anxious 
| to repair the wall on the instant. 

“ Stop a moment ; not so fast,” interrupted the member, 
hiding a smile at his impetuous desire to make all the 
reparation in his power. “ I sent a man to fix the wall im- 
mediately after you left its vicinity, and perhaps that was 
the most lucky bit of deviltry you ever accomplished. What 
branch of the service do you prefer ? ” abruptly going back 
I to the army again. 

Phil paused, thoughtfully twisting back and forth the 
j| broken rim of his straw hat. Although he had never 
i thought of it before, he felt it to be a very momentous ques- 
I tion, and one not to be hastily answered. After carefully 
digesting it in all its bearings, he gravely replied : 

“Well, sir, I am not much of a figure for the infantry, 
but on horseback, now, I ’d do very well. Legs don’t show 


94 


WHO WAS SHE? 


to much advantage in the saddle, and you are all right if 
the stirrups are short enough. I have read about these 
things. I know the drill. I’ve the regular army tactics 
at home. I think, considering I ’m so top-heavy — can’t see 
how my neck and legs forgot to grow, though — I ’ll aim 
for the cavalry, sir.” 

Again the member smiled. “You are high in your 
ideas, my boy.” 

“ No higher than I can fly ; all I want is a chance,” 
confidently replied the lad. 

“ And are there no little playmates whom you will regret 
leaving behind ? ” asked Mr. Colburn, pointedly. 

“ Oh, no,” said Phil ; “ no one that I care for.” 

“ Why, what would your black-eyed Gypsy say, if she 
heard you utter such treason ? ” 

Philip’s countenance fell. Poor Gypsy ! it would break 
her loving little heart. His own reproached him, that he 
should have forgotten her in his new aspirations. Lot 
Colburn’s keen, steel-gray eyes were on his face, reading its 
varying expressions with unerring truth, and was pleased 
to see that he was not ashamed of the child-passion so 
beautifully illustrated under the hickory. The expression 
was wholly sorrowful. Most lads of his years would have 
been shy to acknowledge their affection for a little girl like 
Genie, but Phil was quite the contrary, and rather prided 
himself on Imogene’s open preference for his ungainly self. 
If older people presumed to make comments, he scornfully 
let them pass, but punished this presumption in youths of 
his own age, by a sound hammering. Pooh ! what did stout 
little Phil care. All the town was welcome to know that 
he liked Gypsy, and stood up for her like a hero on all oc- 
casions. He was one of those bold, impenetrable boys, on 
whom teasing and jeering is quite thrown away. As for 
laughing him out of anything, that was as useless as at- 
tempting to stare a stone out of countenance, and to the 


WHO WAS SHE? 


95 


juvenile portion of Alden extremely dangerous. The sor- 
rowful look gradually died out of the face that Lot Col- 
burn was studying in pleased surprise, and he said with 
slow distinctness : 

“ Yes ; Gypsy will take on, but I can talk her out of it, 
for she is very fond of me.” 

“ Oh,” thought the grave man of the world, “ how confi- 
dent he is of his power. Already he knows how to use it 
over the heart that loves him best. I fear ambition will 
destroy his boy-love, and that is a sad, sad thing to think 
of. Even now he is planning in his mind how he will hush 
her tears and voice, and bend her sorrow to his will.” 

Philip broke in on his thoughts by remarking, apolo- 
getically, as if it were needful to excuse his treason toward 
Gypsy : “You know, sir, I could not stop just because a 
little girl cried and felt bad about my going.” 

“ And who is the beautiful little girl I saw with you 
yesterday afternoon ? ” 

“Her real name is Imogene Yale, but I call her Gypsy, 
’cause she is so wild and dark. There ain’t a girl in the 
village as can touch her for beauty, nor temper,” he added, 
sotto voce. “ She is the child of the English lady who died 
with the Lees two years ago.” 

“ And who was she ? ” 

Philip was amazed, the question seemed such a blank, 
unanswerable one, uttered in so direct a way by the search- 
ing voice of the Honorable Lot, that he was staggered for a 
moment, having an idea that he alluded to the lady’s ob- 
scure antecedents ; he replied, confusedly : 

“I — I don’t know, sir.” 

The words had scarcely passed his lips when from out 
the dim past arose the pale, reproachful face of Elinor, 
looking as it did the day he last kissed its chill whiteness. 
The memory of that thin, shrouded figure recalled his 
startled senses, and he quickly added : 


96 


WHO WAS SHE? 


“Why, she was Mrs. Yale — who else could she be?” 

“ And her daughter is still with the Lees ? ” 

“ Yes, sir, and treated every bit as well as Davie, and 
she ’s their own girl, and all they have, too.” 

“ Take my advice, Philip, and if this Gypsy is fond of 
you, keep her in your mind first of all. Her love will 
satisfy after all other things become stale. You needed it 
as a boy ; you will need it more as a man.” Lot Colburn 
sighed, and passed his hand across his brow, very much as 
if his heart were awearying of its ambition, and longing 
for a woman’s love. Philip remained respectfully silent, 
furtively watching him from the corner of his eye, and 
vaguely wondering how he could ever repay his noble 
kindness. 

“Yes, Philip, remember through all life’s swift changes 
that star-eyed little Gypsy. That is all. You may go.” 
He kindly held out his hand. Phil laid his brown paw in 
the soft, white palm, with a full, overrunning heart. “They 
call me a rough chap around here ; but, sir, they have been 
rough to me; and, at my worst, no one can say I am 
ungrateful. I promised a woman, as is dead, that I would 
be kind to her little girl, and that ’s why I stand up for 
Gypsy. Excepting her mother, and you , and Mrs. Lee, I 
can’t recollect as ever anybody thought I was worth a kind 
word.” He hesitated, the sweet undertone of his voice as 
tremulous as it was that day when he cried at Elinor’s 
knee. Lot Colburn was deeply touched, and gently patted 
his head to hide his own emotion. 

“ There, don’t thank me. I am but doing my duty. Do 
yours by me in return, and we are even. You have a heart 
that kindness can reach. I have great hopes of you. Come 
and see me when you please. I’ll always be glad to see 
you.” He led him into the hall, and watched him bound 
down the marble steps, two at a time. Then he went 
back to his book, murmuring, as he turned over the 


WIIO WAS SHE? 


97 


leaves, “I have this day given to America a famous 
general.” 

Phil glanced remorsefully at the fountain musically 
dropping its bright water into the marble basin, stopping a 
moment to look at the young girl, who, unconscious of his 
presence, was sitting in a rustic chair near by, listening to 
its soft murmur. The drooping boughs of the ornamental 
willow beneath which she reclined seemed swaying in time 
with the tinkling water-music. The steel-gray eyes of the 
! watcher were fixed on the rising bubbles constantly form- 
i ing and breaking on the surface. Ah, poor Olive Col- 
burn, she had seen them so many times ! A pair of silver- 
banded crutches leaning against the tree told their sad story. 
Philip only paused long enough to note that she was pale 
and slender, before bounding on again. His feet hardly 
touched the earth. A new world had dawned to his vision. 
The grand dream of his inmost being was to be a sublime 
reality. In fancy he had already fought a score of battles; 
and over the green hills came the roar of artillery, the rat- 
tle of infantry, and the dash of cavalry. Music, banners, 
glory, and victory whispered the splendor and triumph of 
war as he scampered through the buttercups and daisies of 
the meadow, speeding toward the Lees’ in- hot search of 
Gypsy. “ Bah ! Thad Ruggles might be a slow, plodding 
lawyer, and dig in everlasting sheepskin for a scant living, 
but he would carve out early fame and fortune with the 
I sword ! ” so thought the eager boy. But above the smoke 
• and din of his prospective glories, above the fire, and blood, 

, and suffering of imaginary conflicts arose the young face 

! of Imogene Vale, more beautiful from the confusion that 
surrounded it. Thus soon in his mind she was second to 
; his ambition. Oh, pitiful thought, that he was rearing 
this grand chimera of future greatness above the love that 
; was part of himself. He did not realize it then, and ran 
whistling and shouting on his way. “ Why don’t you 


98 


WHO WAS SHE? 


bark?” he cried to Hero, who had appeared at his heels 
the moment the gates of the Colburn estate were passed. 

“ Why don’t you bark ? That ’s it, old fellow ; wag your 
tail, for you ’ll soon be done wagging it for me.” 

Then he clapped his hands and shouted until all the 
woods rang with the echo. Hero barked furiously in con- 
cert, leaping about in a frenzy of canine delight. 

“ Gypsy shan’t say I slighted her this time, though I 
didn’t intend to before. We never slight her; do we, 
Hero ? ” appealing to his dog for want of a better listener. ■ 
Meeting Thaddeus a few moments later, he could not 
refrain from imparting his good fortune to that serious and 
even-tempered young man, who, he was well aware, did not 
like him. But Thad was far from being a selfish person, 
and if it were really a benefit to Phil, he was heartily glad, 
and sincerely told him so ; but once out of the boy’s sight, 
he could not help asking himself, “ Is Lot Colburn in his 
dotage ? ” For a quarter of an hour after parting with Thad- 
deus a crippled bat that he happened to spy clinging to a 
wayside tree claimed Phil’s absorbing attention, and in the 
fun of making it “ squeak ” he alike forgot Imogene and 
that he was to be a West-Point cadet. 




WHO WAS SHE? 


99 


CHAPTER X. 

childhood’s pleasant days are past. 

O H, dear ! ” cried Yida, bounding into the sitting-room, 
where Imogene sat pensively turning over the leaves 
of an old dog-eared history, that she had resuscitated from 
' the rubbish in the garret, to more thoroughly acquaint her- 
self with the duties and dangers of a soldier. Deeply in- 
terested, she had closely scanned the pictured battles from 
Lexington to Chapultepec, and had just arrived at the con- 
clusion that it was a very wicked and precarious thing to 
be a soldier, when Davie burst in with her prefatory “Oh, 
dear ! ” 

“ What are you ‘oh dearing ’ about ?” asked Genie, with- 
out looking up. 

“ I guess you will ‘ oh dear ’ worse than I, when you come 
to know. I don’t quite understand it, only Phil is going 
away to the school where they make soldiers. The very 
one where Lawrence Parker went. Oh, won’t he look a guy 
in such tight gray clothes ! ” Imogene’s tattered history 
fell to the floor unheeded, and springing up, she stood poised 
on one foot, the great eyes wild with apprehension. “ Did 
he tell you?” she asked, the old sense of slight and jeal- 
ousy uppermost. 

“ No ; Thad told me. He met him in the lane, coming 
this way, to tell you, I suppose. Phil could n’t rest without 
telling — ” But Imogene was halfway to the gate, leaving 
Davie bereft-of a listener, and much hurt that Genie should 
scamper away bareheaded, and not allow her to finish the 
story. But careless of her abrupt departure, Imogene’s black 
curls were flying down the lane, glistening like the wing of a 


100 


WHO WAS SHE? 


blackbird in the sunshine, repeating at every step, “ lie ’ll 
tell me first — he is coming to tell me first.” 

Sure enough, there came Phil, skipping along as fast as 
his short Legs could carry him. Under his hands the crip- 
pled bat had squeaked its last, and with the final motion 
of the ugly thing Philip bethought him of his mission to 
Gypsy, and immediately hurried on, doubling his speed, 
when he saw Genie coming as hard as she could run to 
meet him — the dark face glowing, and drops of perspira- 
tion standing thick on her brow and about her mouth. 
Reaching out her little arms to shorten the distance, when 
full two rods away, she cried, breathless from haste and ex- 
citement : 

“ Tell me it is not true that you are going away. Say it 
is not true.” 

“ Oh, but it is, though,” confirmed the boy, picking her 
up like a feather, and giving her a toss in the air. “ I was 
coming to tell you. Let ’s sit down here on this stone, and 
I ’ll make it all as clear as noon. My, how warm you are ! 
all in a drip — sweat as big as peas all over your face.” 

Philip wiped the sleeve of his linen jacket across her 
forehead several times, fanned her a few moments with his 
hat, leaning on his elbow and scraping the brim randomly 
about her neck and chin, all of which she seemed to endure 
in a most thankful spirit. After this gallant attention he 
proceeded to inform her, word for word, interspersed with 
copious comments, everything the Hon. Lot Colburn had 
said, winding up with, “Now, you be good, and grow as 
fast as you can, and I ’ll take you with me when I am done 
with the school.” 

This Genie faithfully promised to do. 

“ But, Philip,” she said, putting back her damp hair, the 
questioning dark eyes looking sadly at him, “the years will 
be so long — so long from Christmas to Christmas — so long 
from birthday to birthday. Oh, so long waiting for you.” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


101 


The sadness of her words, touched all through with the 
sorrow of the child-voice, cast a dejected gloom over the 
boy, and for a moment the dazzling glories he was to win 
faded away, but revived in full force after a little pondering. 

“ I know you won’t have any one that you like to hunt 
birds’ nests and squirrels with, but every year you will care 
| less for such things, so that ’s not so much matter ; and you 
know, Gypsy, if you are right fond of me you ought to be 
glad that I have so good a chance. They don’t come every 
day, I can tell you. And I’ll return so hunky that all the 
old Alden nincoms will stare their eyes out. But I hope to 
die if I don’t always like you best of anybody, Gypsy.” 

This was Philip’s ne plus ultra of a vow, and its terrible 
solemnity was deeply felt by the girl, who deemed it per- 
fectly impossible for any one to live a moment after break- 
ing so fearful an oath. 

“ I am glad that you are going to be so great, and that 
Mr. Colburn was kind to you, though it is dreadful to kill 
people that have never harmed you, and bury them in a 
ditch, and everything all blood and groans ” — this was a 
mixed vision of the recent history in a high state of con- 
fusion — “ but I shall be so lonely, and my heart is just 
breaking this minute.” A great sob burst from the little 
bosom, and a torrent of tears rained into the neatly 
starched white apron in so reckless and ruinous a way 
that Hetty’s careful soul would have been frantic at the 
wanton sight. 

Philip thought of that day under the lilacs, and almost 
believed that the dead mother lay stark in the darkened 
parlor, and was being mourned anew. Resorting to the old 
remedy, he cuddled her down in his lap like a grieved 
baby, gently stroking her hair as it lay crushed against his 
stout breast, the pitying tenderness of his eyes and mouth 
wonderfully softening the hard austerity of the uncouth 
features. Brushing the fast flowing tears from her cheeks 
9 * 


102 


WHO WAS SHE? 

with the back of his hand, pausing every second to per- 
form the same service for himself individually, for the 
mist was so thick that he could not see without privately 
clearing his vision — whispering close to her ear, he went 
off on another tack, hoping to mend matters by a new ver- 
sion on the subject. 

“You must not cry, or else I’ll think you selfish, and 
don’t care to have me get on in the world.” 

“Oh, don’t say that, Phil, please don’t. I can’t bear 
you to think so mean of me, when it ’s all so very differ- 
ent,” she sobbed, wounded at this reproach into a fiercer 
gust of sorrow. 

“ Well, I don’t exactly mean selfish, I mean — no, I 
don’t, either. You are the only one who will feel sorry at 
my going, because you are the only one who really loves 
me. I ’ll not scold you, or say you are selfish, when I know 
you are not, and you may cry it out now as you did when 
— when — she was dead. I don’t mind telling you, for 
you never blab, even when you are mad, like most silly 
girls ; but I ’ve made up my mind to just take the rag off* 
everything in the army, and lick everything I undertake 
to fight fair out of their boots. But if I should mention 
this — and, except you, it fills all my thinking room — to 
any of these old village gum-heads, they ’d only laugh and 
poke fun at me ; but you wait and see if I don’t come out 
a trump, and make something howl before I am done. 
You are so pretty, Gypsy ; and you will be prettier yet, 
when you are older. I never get tired of looking at you, 
though I do at most girls.” 

“ And do you love me because I am pretty ? ” lifting 
her head in surprise, as if she had never thought of it 
before . 

“ Yes ; part that, and part because you are Gypsy, and 
not like any of the others. And I have loved you ever 
since you were a crawling baby, no longer than my arm. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


103 


You are ’most nine. Why, you will be a woman when I 
return. Now say you are willing for me to go, and 
keep this kiss until I come back. You won’t let anybody 
steal it?” 

“ No ; I ’ll let no one touch me, and I ’ll be glad, if it 
will please you, Phil ; but you know I can’t get over the 
ache sudden,” she said, regarding him wistfully with a 
long-drawn sigh. 

Brave little heart ! she was crushing all the grief out- 
wardly, that she might please him, and seem proud and 
cheerful in his going away — thus early beginning a 
woman’s mission of self-denial. 

Two months later, they stood together in that selfsame 
spot, and uttered the good-by that was to separate them for 
four long years. In her very childhood Imogene’s life 
took up its burden of waiting. The one name, Philip, 
comprised the sum of existence to her. The world con- 
tained nothing else — the theme of all her thoughts — the 
impetus that chose and guided her studies. To excel in 
beauty and accomplishments beyond the most beautiful 
and accomplished of the village girls was her sole ambi- 
tion. Not that she cared about it for herself, but for 
Philip’s sake she was vain of the lovely face and preco- 
cious genius with which nature had richly endowed her ; 
and the rare promise of splendid womanhood was cherished 
with secret delight, as another link binding her to him, and 
she watched her own graceful growth of stature and de- 
velopment of mind in eager anxiety. 

Philip fairly established at West Point, she went back 
to her books with fresh zeal. He should not find her a 
dullard, a tame, insipid country-girl, ignorant of the bet- 
ter music and poetry of life. If he advanced ever so rap- 
idly, he should see that she, in a womanly way, could 
keep pace in the progressive and intellectual race that 
marked the sphere of each. Lessons that racked poor 


104 


WHO WAS SHE? 


Davie’s brain to woful sighs and tears, were readily mas- 
tered by Imogene, who was immensely her superior in 
matters which required quick mental activity, and rap- 
idly and easily left her far behind in school honors. But 
Davie was not jealous nor envious; for was not Genie 
always willing to help her out in her lessons, and explain <j 
the nature of those perplexing compound fractions that 
were too hard for anything? and it was so nice to have 
such a clever and obliging sister. 

In the late autumn of this same year, Davie had her ’ 
first grief. Thaddeus was going away to Oregon, a then 
almost unknown wilderness ; and in her gentle, patient, 
indemonstrable manner, this was a great trial to genial, { 
even-tempered Davie. 

From her birth, sober - visaged Thad had been her 
brother, companion, and lawgiver. She was the apple of 
his eye, deep-fixed, and silently worshipped below every- 
thing else in his heart. But no one knew this ; he hardly 
knew it himself : she was his sister, and as such obeyed and 
adored him as a matter of course, and as all good little ] 
sisters should a tall, severe-eyed, older brother. 

As he was going early in the morning, he bade the chil- 1 
dren good-by the evening before. He said good-night to \\ 
Imogene in the usual indifferent custom, and she nodded 
back a careless reply; but halfway up the stairs she ] 
thought better of it, and, returning, she went up to him as 
he sat with Davie drowsily whimpering on his knee, and 
looking up in that solemn, penetrating manner peculiar to 
her when deeply earnest, she said, “Good-by, Thaddeus, 
and in all the future — success ! ” 

“ Thank you, Imogene,” replied Thaddeus, surprised at 
the fervor of her tone. “ I shall miss your bright face in 
the new, strange land. Here is good-by to you from an 
ardent heart.” He would have kissed her, but she drew 
hastily away. “Now I can’t; I promised”— she hesitated, 


WHO WAS SHE? 105 

as if she was betraying a sacred confidence, and gave him 
her hand instead, tossing back a kiss from the tips of her 
fingers as she left the room. Davie mustered a woebegone 
smile at Genie’s funny way of bidding him farewell, and 
immediately went to feeling very bad again. She had 
cried by fits all the afternoon, and was dreadful tired and 
sleepy, and she tucked her face under his arm in the old 
baby fashion, and sniffled herself into silence. The light, 
melancholy pats he unconsciously bestowed on her plump 
little shoulder soothed the last vestige of grief ; and when 
Thaddeus, who had been turning over in his mind the most 
consoling method of saying the final adieu — he was not a 
natural comforter like Philip — lifted the drooping head, 
she was fast asleep. “ She could not keep awake, poor 
lamb, and it makes the parting easy. I ’ll carry her up to 
bed, as I have done so many times. Ah, when will she fall 
asleep in my arms again?” thought Thaddeus. 

Mrs. Lee came in with eyes that spoke of recent weep- 
ing. Laying her hand affectionately on his shoulder, she 
said, “I cannot realize that this is your last night under 
the old roof.” 

“ Don’t, mother. I ’ll come back an honor and a bless- 
ing to you, my more than mother ; and I pray you not to 
make this sad hour sadder by your tears that will not avail. 
I ’ll live but to do my duty to you and God.” 

“ Heaven grant it ? ” Her trembling hand went from his 
thick auburn locks to Davie’s sunny hair ; then she kissed 
them both, whispered / 4 God keep my children,” and went 
softly out. , Thaddeus; clasping close his loved burden, dis- 
appeared up the narrow stairway. Tenderly laying the 
slumbering child on the bed, he bent over her, kissing lips 
and brow ; a suppressed groan followed, and falling on his 
knees, he prayed, “ God’s best blessings on thee, my fair, 
darling little sister.” Davie turned her cheek to the pillow, 
and gave a half-sighing breath, indicative of sound sleep. 


106 WHO WAS SHE? 

V 

She was unconscious of his anguish, but through the dim 
starlight gloom a pair of black eyes watched him from 
behind the door. Imogene noted his tearless sorrows and 
vaguely thought, “ Can this be staid old Thad making such 
a fuss over a little sleepy-head, who snores an accompani- 
ment to his prayers?” She shrank among the shadows as 
he swiftly passed by, and then lightly tiptoed into the bed- 
room, which she had always shared with Davie. It was a 
neat, large chamber, facing the south and west, looking 
out over a broad expanse of hills and fields. The west 
window Davie kept curtained very close, for from it could 
be distantly seen the village grave-yard; of late it had 
been greatly beautified and improved, and was now known 
by the dignified name of Alden Cemetery. It was there 
Elinor lay buried, beside her little brother and sisters, and 
so Davie always avoided the window which reminded her of 
death. Imogene lifted the tabooed curtain, and by the 
feeble light bestowed a long look on oblivious little Yida. 
The scornful smile on her lips was as scornful as her words : 
“ And so you can sleep like that, when Thaddeus is going 
with the coming day ! Y ou are not capable of much affec- 
tion. I did not sleep so sound for weeks after Philip went 
away. I can’t, even now ; and lay awake, with my eyes 
wide open in the dark, thinking of him. Ah ! Davie, dar- 
ling, yours is a tender, passionless, forgetting heart.” 

In the indistinct dawn of the morning a black, curly 
head might have been seen peeping from behind the muslin 
curtain, the bright sleepless eyes on the alert for the stage 
that was to bear away Thaddeus to years of wandering, 
toil, and absence ; but the blonde tresses of Davie still lay 
sweetly reposing on the pillow. Imogene’s dark face was 
almost contemptuous in the gray, uncertain light. “He 
loves you, Yida Lee, and you pretend to adore him, yet 
you sleep, when my eyes will not close, and I do not, nor 
never have loved him ; but he was part of my home life 


WHO WAS SHE? 


107 


here, and its breaking pulls at my heart. You will cry 
after breakfast, when you find him gone — you will be too 
drowsy before — and then coax me to play with your rag 
dolls. I hate scratchy-faced dolls, and their silly tea-sets, 
and everything that is a mimic of something real.” 

Before the first letter arrived from Thaddeus, Davie had 
recovered from the loneliness of his absence, and was as 
merry as a cricket, much to Genie’s silent disgust. Not- 
withstanding, his memory was still dearly cherished, for she 
would purloin the letters from her mother’s work-box, and 
spend hours in making out the hard words, gravely appeal- 
ing to Genie for a solution of the extra-complicated sentences. 
Dear little, single-minded Davie ! she was born for the sun- 
shine ; why should she be expected to pass through Imo- 
gene’s darkling shadows ? 


CHAPTER XI. 


AFTER A TIME. 


NY one who had seen the Lee homestead fifteen years 



j\. before, could scarcely believe that it was the same 
dwelling. The old house remained just the same, but a 
great renovation had taken place within. The metamor- 
phosis was not so general in the sitting-room and upper 
regions, but in the parlor it was triumphant. There the 
plain, clumsy furniture had given way entirely. The old- 
fashioned chairs and ponderous sofa had been superseded 
by light, modern upholstery, and the once sacred “best 
things” were ingeniously scattered, never to stand again in 
rigid pomp in the best room. 

Many elegant feminine trifles, arranged in nooks and 


108 


WHO WAS SHE? 


corners, pointed to deft, artistic fingers other than Ruth’s 
or Hetty’s. The blossoming plants in the sunny south 
window were not there when we last saw the quaint old 
sitting-room. The new reign brought them, as well as 
the velvet-voiced canary, singing in his gilded cage, hop- 
ping from perch to seed-cup, with a twittering song that 
merged into a clear warble when his young mistress came 
to give him a gay good-day. Then there was any number 
of cunningly made tidies, mats, and the like. Wax flowers 
and burr frames were also conspicuous, with ingenious bits 
of shell-work, and a marvel in the way of a sofa-pillow, 
made from infinitesimal scraps of silk of every conceivable 
color, nicely joined together in a square, and stuffed out as 
plump as a Christmas turkey. But all this was nothing 
compared to the wonders wrought in the parlor. The 
homemade striped carpet had disappeared, and now a 
pretty ingrain sprinkled its roses over the floor. Lace cur- 
tains had supplanted the common green-paper .shades that 
used to be rolled up with a cotton string, finished with a 
glaring white tassel of Hetty’s modest manufacture, which 
probably accounted for its scrimp and fuzzy appearance. 
And there in the corner, where Elinor Yale had lain through 
the holy time between death and the waiting grave, stood a 
handsome rosewood piano. 

In speaking of this last extravagance, David had con- 
tentedly remarked: “Well, well; I am prosperous, and 
can afford it. The girls, Lord bless ’em ! begged it out of 
me ; and then the carpet and chairs and curtains would n’t 
do; and then the whitewashed walls and lumbering old 
sofa was no match; and as I’d not like a tumble-down old 
shed next to my new barn, I gave in. They trundled out 
the spinning-wheel and trundled in the piano. It was kind 
o’ tough to see the old thing go. But the girls must ad- 
vance with the times — things are different since Ruth’s 
day — and we can’t expect it of the young folks ; and it 


WIIO WAS SHE? 


109 


mightily pleases women to fix up in-doors. I’d affection 
for the stiff, grim old traps of sixty years ago, because they 
were familiar with my mother’s face, and the pride she took 
in dusting and arranging them was touching. But for that, 
I vow I believe I ’d like these new, light, airy ones best. I 
don’t farm as my father did. No, no ; I improve my stock 
and land according to science and progression, and why 
shouldn’t my women -folks improve and modernize their 
house ? ” 

Sound logic in David, for which all the “ women-folks ” 
of his domicil rewarded him by a score of hugs and thanks. 

A delicious summer twilight, blending daylight with 
moonlight so slowly that you hardly knew when the one 
departed and the other came, only there, over the treetops, 
peeps the young moon, and the west yet reflecting the red 
and gold of the vanished sun — a pensive hour, when our 
hearts go naturally heavenward, and the Father’s love 
draws very near ; when the vexations and toil of the day 
fade into tranquil peace and rest, and the light and shade of 
the landscape is but a reflex of our nature. It was on such 
an hour and evening that any one passing the Lee farm- 
house might have seen seated at the piano a young girl, 
darkly handsome, with lustrous black eyes, and a midnight 
wealth of curling hair. Imogene Yale had more than ful- 
filled the promise of her childhood. Beautiful and gifted 
to a degree that astonished everybody, she was the best 
pupil in Alden’s superior academy, but not the best loved ; 
she was too haughty and reserved for that, and carried off 
class prizes and school honors in proud silence. Confident 
of her own ability, and caring for nothing but her own 
thoughts, she lavished no affection on her schoolmates and 
indulged in no school-girl raptures. She had no bosom 
friends and confidants, like Davie; no daily kisses, and 
hugs, and secrets ; no pets and pouts ; no strong likes and 
dislikes. She was free from the thousand and one griefs 
10 


110 


WHO WAS SHE? 


and joys of school. Her music was the grand passion of 
her being, and how to gratify it a study that at first baffled 
her ingenuity to surmount. But she conquered it by going 
straight to Kuth and David, imploring, with the eloquent 
tears filling the proud eyes that were not wont to w T eep, 
that they would give her an opportunity and aid her to cul- 
tivate the talent which was all she had to look to should 
she ever be forced to earn her own living. Her voice and 
musical genius were her fortune, and if now improved she 
could repay it all in the future. David scouted the last 
proposition, and took time to consider regarding the first. 
But Ruth readily agreed, and Davie joined in the entreaty. 
The trio were too much for him, he succumbed, and a fine 
instrument was the result of their combined power. 

This was the true secret of the piano, the advent of which 
turned out the old furniture, and sent Ruth out in search 
of a competent music - teacher. Imogene’s improvement 
was sure and rapid. At early daylight and dusky evening, 
hour after hour she would patiently practise ; the more the 
difficulties the more she bent every energy to overcome 
them. Yida surprised herself, and everybody else, by mas- 
tering sharps and flats after a deal of hammering, drum- 
ming at scales, and writhing under time and measure with 
a persevering zeal quite remarkable for her. Without a 
teacher Imogene had taken up French. The language came 
to her like a mother -tongue, and her well-worn French 
grammar and lexicon were conned over with an unflagging 
determination to conquer. All day and half the night she 
pored over her books, Ruth’s gentle chiding eliciting only a 
pleading “ Oh, auntie, I cannot live without my books. I 
am not injuring my health ; much sleep is not natural to 
me, and much study is. If I can obtain a good education 
I ’ll be ready armed to meet the world. I ’m but a waif, 
aunt; I never forget that, though you are so kind and 
loving.” What could Mrs. Lee do but turn away in 


WHO WAS SHE? 


Ill 


silence, and let the spirit that created feed the fire until 
satisfied. 

It would be hard to tell of what Imogene was thinking 
as she sat at the piano, her hands idly running over the 
keys, bringing out little throbs of random music — frag- 
ments of tunes, just as they chanced to drift through her 
mind. The moon, hanging full over the maples, threw a 
long rift of soft, moving light on the carpet. Davie, sitting 
in the doorway, bathed in its mellow beams, was quite un- 
conscious of how sweet a picture she was making. It was 
very quiet, only the broken music pulsing out irregularly, 
and a quivering tremor of the leaves bending to shelter 
some gray little bird that had forgotten its bedtime. 

With head leaned back and hands listlessly folded, Vida 
sat dreamily listening. Presently a flood of music, sad 
and low, sobbed from the instrument. The melody was so 
utterly sad that the tears sprang unbidden to Davie’s blue 
eyes. 

“ What is that — I never heard you play it before? ” she 
asked, when the last note died away. 

“ I don’t know,” said the player. “ It just came into my 
mind ; impromptu, nothing more.” 

“It is a sorrowful thing,” said Davie, wiping her eyes. 
“ It brought the tears without my knowing it. I will call 
it ‘ The Parting.’ ” 

“ And this, then, shall be ‘ The Meeting.’ ” Imogene 
began a brilliant medley, gay, joyous, and full of laughter, 
as mirthful as the other was sad ; after which she seated 
herself on the sill beside Davie. 

“ I wish I could play like you, Genie. I wonder how 
you contrive to put so much language into your, playing. 
You make the piano laugh and cry and talk as suits your 
pleasure.” 

“ Oh, it ’s my gift ; nature could not be quite a churl and 
deny me everything. I am sure you get on nicely.” 


112 


WHO WAS SHE? 


“ Oh, I can’t play anything but what is set for me, and 
not that without a deal of wearying practice,” complained 
Davie. 

Nothing could be more completely different than those 
two young creatures sitting in the doorway. Slim, grace- 
ful girls of fifteen, standing on the verge of beautiful 
womanhood, eagerly meeting the years as they passed, and 
longing to embrace full maturity, careless of the troubles 
and anxieties it brought in its train. The one happy and 
living in the present ; the other earnest, and looking to the 
future. Imogene, with her richly stored and mature mind, 
might to have been twenty, and Davie ten, so far was the 
one in advance of the other. Genie, poor child ! was largely 
gifted, full of high-strung passions and lofty pride. The 
petty tempers, vindictiveness, and self-will of childhood 
were laid aside, or controlled by a gentler, more womanly 
spirit, but the old nature still smouldered deep underneath. 
Davie could never admire her enough, and was everlast- 
ingly praising her to all her friends, for she was so like the 
gorgeous picture of an Eastern princess she once saw, and 
carried her beauty and accomplishments royally. 

Imogene was, indeed, gorgeously lovely — such a rare, 
splendid face, dark, sparkling, and intellectual, as is seldom 
met with. And Davie was so fair: yellow braids, and 
violet-blue eyes, thousands like it, shelly-cheeked, dimple- 
chinned, pretty, pink, and waxen, commonplace doll beauty 
— that was lovable little Davy. Her face never knew 
anger or frowns; merry from morning till night, she danced 
about gay as a lark. Smiles, sunshine, and gladness fol- 
lowed her footsteps. Nothing troubled her ; nothing put 
her out. No fretting, sulks, nor temper marred her exist- 
ence. She managed to get all the sweets of life, leaving 
the bitter for other cups. 

A loving, good-natured creature was Davie, and sitting 
on the door-sill she looked it without being told. • Twisting 


WHO WAS SHE? 


113 


her fingers in Genie’s heavy curls, she remarked, laugh- 
ingly : 

“I suppose to-morrow must be marked with a white 
stone, for Phil Shirley — I beg pardon — Lieutenant Shir- 
ley is coming. Susie Johnson is just wild, and says he has 
graduated with the highest honors, and that she always did 
like him.” 

“ I am very certain he never liked her” said Genie, 
tartly. 

“ No, indeed ; and Susie does fib so. My ! I ’d be afraid 
to say my prayers if I told such stories as she makes no- 
thing of telling,” said Davie, piously lifting her eyes. “ But 
it is true about his graduating ! Who would have believed 
it of our ragged, saucy Phil ? ” 

“ I would,” was the terse reply. 

“ I wonder how he will look, and if he will remember 
us? Such inseparable chums as you were, and how he 
used to domineer over you ! ” went on Davie. “ He petted 
and liked you best, though. I wonder if he will remem- 
ber it?” 

“ He will remember,” said Imogene. “ I know he will 
remember.” 

For weeks she had counted the days that would bring 
the last of September and Philip ! She lay awake think- 
ing of him half the night, and all day she had wandered 
about restlessly waiting the morrow. Davie saw nothing 
unusual in her manner, however. Happy creature! her 
mind was too careless, too thoughtlessly simple to penetrate 
the outer mask. Imogene’s face never betrayed her heart, 
and its secret promptings were hidden deeper than much 
keener eyes could fathom. It was the old, open child-love, 
intensified by years of silent brooding into a strange, sacred 
sort of passion, that was like a solemn trust which she was 
set to keep and guard from the unsympathizing curious 
with jealous care. It was the centre of her being, to which 
10 * 


114 


WHO W A S SHE? 


every other impulse of her nature became subservient, and 
where her higher and better thoughts and hopes tenaciously 
clung, resolving into a species of ideal worship — a dream, 
which, rudely broken, might startle the young heart from 
its girlish lethargy into a fierce latency of rage and despair. 
She had never doubted Philip’s fidelity, and though she 
answered Davie’s questions laconically, they did not give 
her the least disquiet ; only it was annoying to have that 
hateful Susie Johnson say she liked him, now that he was 
coming home a genteel lieutenant of the regular army. 
David Lee’s strong voice, sounding from the damp vicinity 
of the well, interrupted her thoughts: 

“ Come, girls, give us a song. I am bound to have my 
share out of your music-box.” His heavy tread cut the 
dew from the grass, leaving a line like a swath in his 
wake. Planting himself in the easiest chair, he pinched 
Davie’s dimpled chin, and pulled Genie’s glossy curls, one 
standing on either side, to more effectually enforce his re- 
quest. With his old hat pushed back and his shirt-sleeves 
rolled up, he threw a brown, muscular arm about either 
slight waist, and, lifting them bodily, carried them across 
the room and set them down at the piano. “ There, now, 
give us one of your best duets.” Laughing, the girls 
obeyed, and rattled off one of their very liveliest double 
compositions. 

“ There, that’s jolly,” encored David, keeping time with 
his foot. “ Now, Yankee-doodle ; none of your operas and 
sentimentals for me.” Davie protested she never could in- 
fuse the right spirit into Yankee-doodle, and Imogene was 
obliged to undertake it. The old air was too much for the 
highly appreciating farmer, and he vigorously beat time 
with hand and foot, whistling a shrill, flute-like accompa- 
niment to relieve his excess of delight. The moment the 
song ended, Davie perched herself on his knee. “ Oh, you 
dear old daddy, haven’t you a rare taste for grand music? 


WHO WAS SHE? 


115 


Here comes mamma to laugh at you.” Kind, brown-eyed 
Ruth, just as light of step and tender of heart as when we 
saw her last, a few silver threads in the smooth, brown hair, 
but soft and plentiful as of yore. Imogene turned around 
on the music-stool and looked at the three attentively. As 
she had grown older and more manageable, David had be- 
come fonder of her, and was never quite satisfied if her shy 
endearments did not come with Davie’s plenteous hugs ; 
and he now motioned her to a seat on his unoccupied knee. 
She readily complied, sitting straight and mute, leaving the 
talk and frolic to her vis-d-vis Davie. 

“Bless us, Ruthie, what two big girls we are getting!” 
he said, playfully turning to his wife. “ We will soon have 
a plenty of beaus sneaking about,” trotting them up and 
down, as he uttered the soft insinuation. 

“I trust it will be a long time, David, before our 
daughters trouble their little heads about beaus,” replied 
Ruth, patting first one and then the other. 

“ Phil Shirley is coming home to-morrow, and he is quite 
a gentleman now, vastly improved I hear; and I am going 
to coax something out of you, papa,” solemnly imparted 
Davie. 

“ Out of me ! Oh, you witch ! you are always coaxing 
something out of me. What is it ? ” 

“A party;” a great gravity of emphasis on the last word, 
followed by a startled pause. “ Yes, a party in honor of 
Philip. He is to remain until after the holidays, and we 
will have lots of time to think and fix for it. I ’ve been 
thinking about it this long while. Oh, Genie, was n’t I 
clever for once ? ” leaning across to kiss her. 

David was astounded. 

“ Well, mother, did you ever hear the like? I told you 
so, beaus and parties always come together ; and what says 
black-eyes to a party ? ” 

“ I should enjoy it very much, uncle,” said Genie, sink- 


116 


WHO WAS SHE? 


ing her head to his broad shoulder, and bestowing a com- 
mending look on Davie. 

“ And blue-eyes conceived this brilliant idea all alone, 
did she?” giving her a fond squeeze. “I say, mother, it 
would be a pity to have such a grand plan come to nought 
for lack of our consent : suppose we sanction it.” 

“ I am willing,” said Ruth, smiling into the eyes of her 
kind, big-hearted spouse. 

“ Oh, I knew you would, you dear, best old papa,” cried 
Davie, in a tremor of delight, burying her pretty nose in 
his limp shirt-collar, by way of expressing her unbounded 
thanks. 

“Ah, wife, these teasing girls are the very plague for 
having their way. There, be off with you. You have 
made me forget that I have a letter in my pocket from 
Thad,” unceremoniously shaking the girls from their com- 
fortable seats, and drawing forth the letter. “ Here, wife, 
I ’ve read it. He ’ll be with us at Christmas, God willing.” 

“ Oh, glorious ! ” broke in Davie, skipping about glee- 
fully. “Then we will have a double party — extra nice in 
his honor. Oh, don’t I wish I was two months older ! ” 

“What a mad-cap it is! But he is doing well, and 
becoming a wonder for law and learning ; you should be 
proud of him, Davie.” 

“ So I am, papa, and will give him half of my party. 
That is generous, I am sure.” David laughed, and went 
out with Ruth to have another perusal of the letter. 

The party pleased Imogene more than she cared to 
admit — it was so novel and fresh she liked it — and petted 
Davie a great deal more than usual in consequence. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


117 


CHAPTER XII. 

OLIVE. 

A GAIN we find Lot Colburn seated in his handsome 
library, and Sam announces “A gentleman to see 
you, sir,” obsequiously showing in a short, stout gentleman 
in the uniform of the regular army. 

“Young Shirley, as I live!” cried Mr. Colburn, grasping 
him by both hands. “I am more than glad to see you. 
This is my daughter, Olive.” 

A small figure, in a recumbent attitude on the sofa, with- 
out moving from her seeming indolent position, held out a 
feeble little hand that Philip was half afraid to touch, and 
said in a faint, sickly voice : 

“ I am very glad to meet you. You will forgive my not 
rising.” 

She glanced with a sad, flitting blush at the crutch lean- 
ing against the arm of the sofa. He bowed, murmured 
something about not wishing to disturb her, and took a 
seat. 

It was our old friend Phil Shirley, but how changed ! Fas- 
tidiously neat in dress, the trim uniform became him well. 
He had acquired a quick military step, which just suited 
! his short stature, and dissipated the clumsiness which his 
i heavy shoulders might have suggested to an obtuse observer. 

! Leaning his elbow on the table, Lot Colburn regarded 
I him attentively, greatly pleased at the marked improve- 
ment of his protege. Lieutenant Shirley had attained the 
lease and bearing of a well-bred gentleman during his ab- 
jsence, as well as the first honors of his class, and Lot was 
naturally very proud of his advancement. 

“ You have done well ; I am proud of you, Philip.” 


118 


WHO WAS SHE? 


“ Thank you, sir. I have tried to merit your approba- 
tion. I have won West Point’s best distinctions, and came 
direct to tell you so.” 

“ Just arrived, eh ? ” 

“ This moment, sir. I have not been home yet. My 
first duty and thanks belong to you. I have never for- 
gotten the generous kindness that gave me a fair start.” 

“ Now I ’ll have no thanks. Why, I ’ll live to see you a 
splendid credit to my discernment,” hastily remarked Mr. 
Colburn, anxious to avoid the expression of Philip’s grate- 
ful feelings. 

A few moments later he rose to go. Approaching the 
sofa, he bade Olive good-by. In conversing with Mr. Col- 
burn he had entirely overlooked her. The daughter, not 
sharing his gratitude with the father, was quite neglected. J 

“ Come often,” she said, lifting her eyes timidly, a slight 
color suffusing her infantile face. “I care to meet but few. 
You are one of the few.” 

“ A favor of which I shall avail myself.” 

He pressed the little soft hand and went out. Scarcely 
were his quick, eager footsteps clear of the hall than Olive 
limped over to her father. 

“You did a good, noble deed there, papa. Let me 
thank you,” kissing him tenderly. 

“He is a promising youth, and has the making of a fine 
officer about him. I saw that long ago. I am glad my 
shy little daughter has taken a fancy to him.” 

Olive’s little crooked body held a woman’s young, loving 
heart. Did Lot Colburn think of it, that he sighed and 
looked at her so pityingly ? 

“ I can hardly realize that our gentlemanly lieutenant is 
the same shrewd scamp of a boy that Sam disparagingly 
introduced to my unasked acquaintance four years ago. 
Ah, time works wonders ! ” 

“ But not with with me, father ; I shall always be lame, 


WHO WAS SHE? 


119 


sickly-faced Olive,” she replied, mournfully contemplating 
her withered form. 

Who would have thought the small, helpless creature a 
woman of twenty -one painful years? Hair of chestnut 
hue, braided away from a white, smooth brow ; steely-blue 
gray eyes, like her father’s, only more spiritual ; lips and 
cheeks pale as fading lilies. Transparent skin, under- 
traced by .a network of minute blue veins from chin to 
I temples, served to render the white face whiter still. The 
habitual sorrowful expression of her eyes and mouth made 
her smiles sad as weeping, and her gayest moments sug- 
gestive of tears. It haunted Philip, even after leaving its 
presence, and all the more ardently he longed to see the 
sparkling face of his boy-love, Gypsy. 

“Thank heaven, there are bright eyes and blooming 
cheeks in the world. These pale, weak, drooping women 
are not to my liking. Faces like wax, and hands that 
crumple in your grasp like wet paper — ugh! Poor Olive! 
and she is Lot Colburn’s only child ! ” 

Thus cogitating, Philip turned into the familiar fields, 
making for Mr. Lee’s well-remembered lane. There it was, 
stretching its green, winding length along between the high 
stone walls that fenced it in from the fine lands lying shorn 
of their rich harvest on either hand. There was the button- 
ball-tree in the angle ; the dwarfed crab-apple and wild- 
cherry a little farther on ; the three stately elms this side 
the row of tall, half-dead poplars ; and one lone, old oak, 
with its trunk close against the wall ; — the grassy cart-track 
and the distinct, separate path, where the cattle came down 
to drink from the brook gurgling through the wall into the 
stone basin, bottomed with white pebbles, and cool and 
mossy where it trickled over the edge. Frogs used to 
abound there. Genie had helped to catch them. How 
everything spoke of her ! Leading her by the hand, they 
had tramped through the woods and field and meadows. 


120 


WHO WAS SHE? 


coming tired and warm to rest under the trees in the lane. 1 
Every stone, and leaf, and wild-flower uttered her name. 
He was living the past over again, and she completely 
filled it. Even the milk-weed pods he saw along the way 
reminded him of yellow-jacket traps, and how one stung 
her twice on the hand: though she quivered with pain, 
she would not cry, but, twisting her little fingers for very | 
aching, she had looked up in loving confidence when he 
put a plentiful supply of mud on the wound, which took 
away the pain right soon. He had assured her that soft, 
cool mud was an infallible remedy for the worst of bee- 
stings, and applied the lotion without stint, she humbly 
holding out her hand at arm’s length, the better to facili- 
tate his kind attentions. Philip folded his arms by the 
dripping water, half believing that Gypsy was bending over 
the margin, her bright face reflected in the shady pool, and 
he standing ankle-deep in the overflow losing itself in the 
trampled grass and soggy turf at the base. 

For the time, the young officer w T as a merry, barefoot 
boy, free from the ambition which was fast obliterating 
the past happy days, and filling the future with dazzling 
schemes of power and greatness. 

Boyhood came back with boyhood’s scenes and memo- 
ries, and in reviewing the old landmarks and the old love 
he forgot that he had started to call on the Lees, and sat 
down at the foot of a tree and listened to a bluebird sing- 
ing over-head for an hour: then he sauntered on, heedless 
that the afternoon was waning, and Imogene yet unaware 
of his arrival. She was in his thoughts though, and per- 
haps it was as well that he lingered long in the lane recall- 
ing the face of his beautiful child-playmate before meeting 
it with a blank of years between. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


121 


CHAPTER XIII. 

IN THE LANE. 

I MOGENE thought that the day which was to bring 
Philip was never so tardy in dawning. The first golden 
ray found her up, and impatiently wishing it were noon 
instead of sunrise. Dinner over, she spent an hour in prac- 
tising. Two o’clock, but he had not arrived. Three ; yet 
no Philip. Would he never come? Her restless, watching 
heart began to fear. What had detained him? Judging 
his devotion by her own, she never once thought but what 
his first visit would be to her, and her eyes ached from 
gazing up and down the road. He might come from any 
direction. She looked across to the side -hill and over 
toward the corn-lot, but no Philip appeared. The in-door 
air oppressed her ; she could endure it no longer, and sti- 
fling under the bitter disappointment, she caught up her hdt 
and stole out — she did not care where, only to be alone. It 
was green and inviting in the lane ; no one would trouble 
her there ; and thither she bent her steps, crouching down 
at the foot of the oak where the crippled bat had surren- 
dered its miserable existence. She threw off her hat. The 
wind, lightly stirring the massy black hair, kept the shadow 
of the oak-leaves dancing over her head in elfin sport. 
Eyes gazing nowhere and hands idly clasped, she sat rapt 

1 ! and motionless, unmindful of the whistling blackbirds in 
the meadow, or the mournful cooing of a ringdove deso- 
| lately calling from the distant wood. 

“ Gypsy ! ” The voice went through her like an electric 
shock. 

“ Phil ! ” Her heart was in the name. The youth knew 

n 


122 WHO WAS SHE? 

it, and took her in his arms as if it were only yesterday 
that they parted. 

“Have I changed much?” he asked, after making 
several desperate efforts to speak. 

“ Very little, only older in the face, and a mite taller. 
Your hands are not so brown, a something different in your 
voice, but your look is just the same. Are you glad to see 
me, Philip ? ” 

“ Glad ! ” His eyes answered the question more elo- 
quently than words. “ Glad to see you, Gypsy, when I 
have thought of you every day ! ” 

“ Then you were like me. I ’ve thought of nothing 
else.” 

“ What a faithful, remembering Gypsy ! Let us sit here 
in the shade and talk it all over. I was coming to see you, 
but I am better pleased to meet you here. Everything 
seems so associated with you hereabouts that they tempted 
me to loiter longer than I was aware. You are just my 
dear little Gypsy, but so much more handsome than I ever 
thought womankind could be.” 

With his fingers tangled in her hair, and her head 
against his arm, Philip was fondling the slim young girl 
as he had fondled and petted the wayward child — she, as 
then, mute and still, with the large, dark eyes uplifted, so 
happy that her heart was one beat of joy. The one bliss- 
ful moment repaid the years of waiting. She forgot that 
she stood on the threshold of womanhood, and that Philip 
was no longer a boy. She forgot all that she should have 
remembered, and remembered all that she should have for- 
gotten ; and with her hands folded in the old trustful way 
on his knee, she was looking worshippingly in his face, a 
smile in the lifted eyes, and every feature radiant with the 
delight of his presence. After all, they were merely boy 
and girl, incapable of sound reflection or a proper ana- 
lyzing of their immature feelings. What did either of 


WHO WAS SHE? 


123 


them know or care for matter-of-fact reasoning? That 
would do for cold-blooded Thaddeus, but not for impetu- 
ous, ardent -hearted Philip, or fervent, passionate -natured 
Imogene. You may be sure he did not stop to consider; 
on the contrary, he pressed her forehead against his chin, 
like one who possessed a perfect right. Oh, happy, thought- 
less, believing youth ! beautiful, piteous love of fifteen, what 
do ye know of life ? What do ye know of the world ? of 
yourselves? of anything? But what is the use of moral- 
izing ? They loved each other, and that comprised their 
world. 

“ I left a kiss on your lips when I went away. Is it 
there yet ? ” 

“ It was until a moment ago,” she replied, roguishly. 

This satisfied him, and he began to relate his school ex^ 
ploits, detailing the locality of the drill-grounds, the rigid 
discipline, the limited rations, and the mysteries of Benny 
Haven’s, with great exactness and gusto. All of which 
impressed his attentive listener with the idea that he had 
been the victim of authorized West-Point martyrdom. 

“ I am not quite stupid,” she thought, “ but I ’ll keep it 
to myself, and astonish him by what I have learned in his 
absence.” 

“ We must be going,” he said, rising. “ I have not been 
home yet. I called on Mr. Colburn. You know I owe it 
to him,” noting the shadow that flitted over her face. “ I 
would not be ungrateful, and you are not going to feel 
slighted and jealous because you were not the first to see 
me, for I always keep the best till the last. But if I 
thought you really were, I’d make you own up, although 
you are tall and slender, and in long dresses.” She laughed, 
and picked up her hat. “ Upon my life, you are a young 
lady. I declare I never thought of it before. I suppose 
I ought to call you Miss Vale, but I fear I will never get 
any higher than Gypsy.” 


124 


WHO WAS SHE? 


“ And, if I see aright, you are a smart young officer. I 
suppose I ought to call you Lieutenant Shirley ; but I fear 
I will never get any higher than Phil. So much for our 
dignity ! ” she retorted, walking demurely by his side. 
Hand in hand they went along, confident that they were 
the happiest mortals in existence. 

“ I ’ll come up this evening,” he said, letting down the 
bars for her to pass through. 

“ Yes, do ; and I ’ll mention to no one that I have seen 
you. It will so surprise Davie,” she replied, bowing gravely 
in mock adieu. 

“ Of all the women that ever lived, you are the most 
beautiful and constant,” apostrophized Philip, looking 
after her. “ Such affection and perfect devotedness comes 
to the most love-favored man but once in a lifetime ; and 
I, being so ill - featured and ungainly, will never win its 
like again, and I ’ll take care to possess it entirely, but — ” 
He did not finish the sentence, walking swiftly in the 
opposite direction, with something resembling a frown on 
his brow. 

Imogene ran into the sitting-room flushed and bright- 
eyed. 

“ Good gracious ! ” exclaimed Davie. “ How rosy you 
are ; one might take you for a peony in full bloom. Where 
have you been hiding ? I ’ve been moping all the after- 
noon, dull as a wet Sunday, for lack of some one to talk 
to. I wanted to consult you about my new dress. I am 
such a rag in anything but white and blue, that I suppose 
I will have to submit to the old colors. I mean to astonish 
Phil, and shall have it made especially for that purpose.” 

“ Oh, you vanity ! I am not going to bother about my 
dress for him or anybody else,” said Genie, affecting an 
immense air of indifference. 

“ Who knows but he will be so proud and airish that he 
will not deign to look at humble you and I?” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


125 


“ Don’t alarm yourself. He will be Phil Shirley, and 
nothing else,” assured Genie ; and, in the exuberance of 
her new joy, she caught the doubting Davie around the 
waist and went waltzing about the room in such a mad 
transport of spirits that her companion could not speak for 
amazement, though she joined in her unusual mirth with 
great zest. Ignorant, however, of its source, she put it 
down to one of Imogene’s inexplicable flights, which she 
never ventured to question. 

“ There, I am quite out of breath,” said Davie, dizzily, 
shaking her head. “ And if this worshipful Philip should 
happen to call this evening, the honor would sanction our 
arraying ourselves in our most becoming attire. Honor 
the brave, say I, and here goes.” 

She flew out of the room, and up stairs like a bird, 
intent on donning the best dress for the young officer's 
benefit. 

What was doubt to Davie, was certainty to Genie, and 
when Hetty announced in a loud whisper from the foot 
of the stairs, “ He ’s come,” she was not a bit surprised, 
although the information, obscure as it was, threw Davie 
into a flutter of excitement, and she ran to meet him without 
stopping for her serenely composed companion to pin the last 
ribbon in place. But, on seeing the spruce* cadet, so differ- 
ent from the Phil of other days, she immediately recol- 
lected her manners, sedately held out her hand, remarking 
politely, “ I am happy to welcome you home again, Lieu- 
tenant Shirley.” 

“None of that, Miss Lee! Nonsense, Davie! I am 
scapegrace Phil, and have pulled your nose a hundred 
times. There, Miss, that is for your impudence!” He 
gave her a kiss that Hetty might have heard in the kitchen 
if she had not at the moment been scouring a saucepan. 
She blushed, and laughed, and pushed Imogene, who had 
seen the performance from the open door as she wa« enter- 
11 * 


126 


WHO WAS SHE? 


ing, toward him, merrily vowing that his loyal kisses be- 
longed there, if anywhere. 

Genie smiled, lightly laid her hand on his arm, and 
quietly explained : “ I have seen Philip before, to-day ! ” 

“Oh, you have!” rejoined Davie. “Then I cannot 
boast th e first kiss after all. How provoking ! and you two 
deceitful things, to steal such a march on poor, credulous 
I. But I was born to be wronged,” trying to look in- 
jured. 

“You need not fear Davie’s anger, despite the fact that 
she is making a desperate attempt to appear stern and re- 
lentless ; I never saw her angry in my life. She lacks the 
nerve and energy to get up a genuine fit of temper, had 
she the will,” teased Imogene. 

“ I -wish I could say the same of you,” retorted Davie ; 
“ I have no doubt but Phil remembers your tantrums. But 
it is not for me to recall your faults,” contemplating the 
floor, in so comically serious a manner that Philip burst 
out laughing. 

What a happy evening it was, and how soon it passed ! 
Ten o’clock came before they were aware, and the last 
chime reminded Philip that he must be going homeward. 
They both stood in the doorway and watched his departure 
in silence. His footsteps died away, leaving nothing but 
his low, musical whistle on the air. Fainter and fainter it 
came back on the breeze, and when lost in the distance, 
Davie said impulsively : 

“ I hate a random whistle, but there always was a certain 
melody about Phil’s that was not altogether ear-piercing; 
some whistlers put my teeth on edge with their everlasting 
grating, but I can endure Philip’s. Is it not too bad that 
he must be sent off to those grim old frontier forts ? Such 
a nice, good fellowTo be sacrificed for border duty. It ’s a 
shame of the Government, when he is such clever, gallant 
company.” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


127 


Imogene was thoughtful, replying, as she went up stairs, 
more to herself than to Davie : 

“ He goes immediately after the holidays, and the post 
assigned him is in the far interior of Arizona, miles and 
miles remote from even the rudest civilization.” The 
thought kept her awake a long time after Davie fell asleep. 
Thus the brightest day of Imogene’s young life had its 
shadow. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


UNDER THE WILLOW. 



LTHOUGH Philip passed a considerable portion of 


-Ljl his time with the Lees, ostensibly as a general caller, 
but in reality Imogene was the sole attraction, he was also 
a frequent and privileged visitor at Mr. Colburn’s. Calling, 
one afternoon, the servant informed him that his master 
was out, but Miss Olive was in the drawing-room ; would 
Lieutenant Shirley see her ? A tete-d-tete with the feeble 
daughter of his benefactor was not especially agreeable to 
Philip ; nevertheless he signified his readiness to wait on 
Miss Colburn. 

He found her supinely resting among a pile of cushions 
on the sofa, languid in manner and emaciated in looks. But 
her mind was not so barren as one, remembering her afflic- 
tion, would have thought. She conversed well, and on this 
occasion tried to be cheerful and interesting. She suc- 
ceeded so admirably that her visitor, who never liked re- 
maining in-doors more than fifteen minutes consecutively, 
forgetting her infirmity, unthinkingly suggested a walk 
about the grounds. A quick, pained look reminded him of 
his blunder. 


128 WHO WAS SHE? 

“ I am sure you would not jest on such a topic,” she said, 
the color mounting to her brow. 

Philip proved equal to the emergency ; banishing the 
momentary embarrassment, he resumed : 

“ Jest? certainly not. Let me ring for your hat. I have 
a stout arm, Miss Colburn. It is at your service, and shall 
do duty instead, of this,” touching the crutch. “You 
should enjoy this splendid autumn weather — nothing like 
plenty of fresh air to uproot the lilies and plant roses in 
cheeks so white as yours. Ah, here is your hat ; let me tie 
it on ; I am famous at such matters. I was a treasure among ’ 
the girls when I was a boy for my dexterity in pinning 
up unfortunate rents, fastening buttonless aprons, repairing 
broken shoe-laces, and getting hard knots out of bonnet- j 
strings ; and, to convince you that I do not overrate myself, 1 
I will illustrate my ability. There ; was not that neatly 
done?” He was so strong, self-confident, and withal so * 
gentle, that she could not object. Abandoning the crutch , 
to the loneliness of the great drawing-room, and leaning ;■ 
all her weight on his supporting arm, they passed out into j 
the hall. But it was awkward going down the steps. Phil had 
no experience in escorting lame girls, and was fearful that 
an unlucky step might prove fatal. To avoid a mishap of ! 
the kind, he coolly picked her up, and never paused until 
he set her down on the rustic bench under the willow near 
the fountain. His unceremonious proceeding astonished 
her beyond expostulation, and she looked up half inquir- 
ingly, half gratefully. “I did not like to risk a fall,” he 
apologized, seating himself beside her. 

“ I see you will get on in the world,” she remarked, 
humorously ; “for you shoulder your difficulties so bravely.” 

Philip smiled — the wondrous gentle smile that used to 
subdue Imogene’s most refractory tempers, and now fasci- 
nated her whole being. To Olive it seemed almost divine, 
and a new, sweet charm followed it, sending a flutter to her 


WHO WAS SHE? 


129 


heart such as had never troubled it before. Phil threw his 
cap on the grass, turned sideways in his seat to get the 
better view of his companion, observing, lightly, “Now I 
presume, Miss Colburn — ” 

“Pray don’t/’ she interrupted; “please call me Olive. 
I am such a child in everything but age. Everybody 
humors me. Please let me be Olive to you.” 

“ Well, then, Olive, I presume you think that I never 
saw you sitting here before?” 

“ It is a favorite resort of mine. It is quite possible for 
you to have seen me here. Did you ? ” 

“ Yes ; the day your father booked me for West Point. 
You were staring straight at the fountain, fixed as a statue. 
I little imagined then that I would sit here with you, Olive 
and Philip to each other.” He took her unresisting hand 
— it was no bigger than a child’s — held it a moment, as if 
determining what it was made of, carefully turned it over, 
palm upward, and laid it gently in her lap again. Evi- 
dently he did not fancy the material, but, oh, how he pitied 
her ! Her sensitive nature, rendered doubly sensitive by 
her sad misfortune, intuitively guessed his thoughts. 

“It is a pitiful thing,” looking down at the rejected hand ; 
“ pitiful, like the rest of me. Everybody pities me. Oh ! 
I am tired of being forever pitied.” Her eyes were full of 
tears. She dare not wink, lest they fall upon her cheeks, 
which would be another pitiable weakness. 

Philip was bent on being cheerful, and hastened to reas- 
sure her. 

“ Y ou are too severe on yourself. A little lameness is 
nothing. -Why, I expect to go on crutches yet. Just 
fancy me with a cork leg or an ugly scar across my any- 
thing but handsome phiz, or both, perhaps.” 

“I should like you just the same.” 

Olive’s voice was low, her eyes tender, the thin face 
lighted up, and during the sudden animation she was really 


130 


WHO WAS SHE? 


pretty — a tame, flitting prettiness, however, that a hun- 
dred faces might possess, without giving it a second glance 
or thought, as was the case with Philip. He noted it one 
moment, to forget it the next. The marble Naiads guard- 
ing the fountain would as soon have won his love. Yet 
he enjoyed idling there by the side of a refined, well-born 
girl, unconscious and indifferent alike as to what she thought 
of him. He was but a beardless boy, thoughtless and a 
little conceited, as the majority of boys are prone to be ; 
thus for the same thing in different objects he was capable 
of a varied compassion. He would have twisted the head 
from a lame rat ; a crippled dog or horse he would have 
tenderly cared for. A lame boy he would simply pass by 
as unworthy of notice; but for a lame girl, young and sad- 
voiced like Olive, he could feel a keen sympathy in a dis- 
jointed, easy way. Now his thoughts were divided between 
the gold fish sportively glancing about in the water, under 
the very nose of a dripping nymph with a shell, who 
seemed to be flirting with a vain Narcissus, stealthily peep- 
ing at his own image over the brink, life on the border, the 
unpleasantness of being a cripple, and Imogene — she was 
always present ; and oblivious of Olive’s nearness, he fell 
to picturing her face in the falling spray. 

“Of what are you thinking?” asked his companion, 
noting his rapt gaze. 

“ Of something beautiful.” 

“ Oh ! then, it was not of me” she replied, in assumed 
lightness. “ Do you love beautiful things ? ” 

“ Yes. Though blunt, rough, and uncouth myself, I can 
yet appreciate beauty in any form.” 

“ Have you ever met many handsome women ? I am 
told this place is poor in that respect,” inquired Olive, 
vaguely wishing that his answer would be a negative. 

Philip returned, enthusiastically, “I have met a few 


WHO WAS SHE? 


131 


handsome women, but the most perfectly beautiful girl in 
the world lives here in Alden.” 

“ Who is she ? ” faintly queried Olive. 

“ Imogene Vale.” 

“ A sweet name. Describe her to me.” 

“ I don’t think I can do her justice. I don’t think any- 
body can, in words. I was just attempting to conjure up 
her semblance in the spray. Imagine a rather tall figure 
for its years — she is barely fifteen — slender, lithe, and 
graceful, quick and active as a startled deer ; ” — (Olive 
winced;) — “eyes black as night — full, deep, and lambent, 
changing with her thoughts, smiling, sparkling, humid, 
never the same, but the loveliest ever seen, no matter what 
the expression ; lips like red roses an hour after parting 
from the stem, and cheeks that rival the roses, only the 
bloom comes and goes and melts into her chin, lurking 
healthfully about her mouth in a richer tide than else- 
where ; and hair — I can’t describe her hair — it is down 
to her waist, curly and soft as satin ; it is wavy all around 
her forehead, and is never smooth, but always splendid. 
She is gifted, too — sings like a nightingale, and plays 
better than her teacher. I ’ve known her since she was a 
foot long. If you never saw Gypsy, you never saw a 
beautiful girl in all your life, Olive.” 

“Gypsy?” 

“Yes, I gave her the name, and never call her by any 
other. She has always been very fond of me,” compla- 
cently informed Philip. The 'final confession did not serve 
to revive Olive’s spirits. Its effect was directly opposite, 
and her heart felt like a lump of lead in her bosom. She 
could not explain the cause, but the world suddenly 
became utter darkness — spaceless chaos, in which only 
one living thing existed, and that was Imogene Vale. The 
strange confusion struck her dumb, blinded her vision, and, 
for the instant, paralyzed her heart. She looked blankly 


132 


WHO WAS SHE? 


at the water, and Philip amused himself by watching the 
gold fish, entirely innocent of the effect of his careless 
words. 

Oh ! content ye, Olive 1 A thousand times better your 
lame seclusion, than to possess the beauty and endure the 
fiery trials fate dealt out so liberally to Imogene. Don’t 
envy her, for the furnace which tried her soul would have 
killed or maddened you outright! 

Olive found her voice — the spell passed — she was again 
calm and patient. “Help me in, Philip; I am tired.” 
She would not be carried this time, and hopped along by 
his side, avoiding as much as possible the use of his arm ; 
but on coming to the steps the young officer persisted, dis- 
regarding her protestations, by carrying her up in the midst 
of them. He declined her invitation to remain longer, and 
after seeing her safely established on the sofa, he bade her 
good-day, and sauntered away to spend the evening with 
Gypsy, little dreaming that poor Olive was bitterly crying, 
with her face buried in the cushions. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


133 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE SERPENT RING. 

I MOGENE’S birthday came a week before the party, 
and was the occasion of Davie producing an innumer- 
able array of fancy articles. Pincushions were predomi- 
nant, but there was also a generous supply of card-baskets 
and braided comb-cases, all of most elaborate patterns in 
a high state of colors. They cost the dear child weeks of 
stolen time, to say nothing of the great self-command and 
watchfulness it required to keep the secret. Davie had 
begged that the party might take place on Genie’s birth- 
day, but, for some reason of her own, Imogene would not 
consent, insisting that it was given in honor of Philip and 
Thaddeus, and not to celebrate her insignificant birthday. 
With the exception of the pincushions and card-baskets, 
no extraordinary events occurred to signalize the day, and 
it passed away into evening without astonishing anybody 
or altering the nature of things mundane or celestial. 

“ Imogene, I have something to give you ; come now, 
dear, and I ’ll keep the promise I made your mother,” said 
Ruth, motioning her to accompany her. Genie obeyed, a 
nameless awe stealing about her heart as she silently 
followed Mrs. Lee to the east bedroom. 

Unlocking a small drawer in the tall, brass-handled old 
bureau, she took from thence the little mother-of-pearl box, 
holding it reverently in a musing attitude before opening 
it. The tiny velvet case fell into her lap. The girl’s won- 
dering eyes never left it, burning down on it as if the hidden 
semblance shrined within charmed before they had beheld 
the token. “ The day your mother died, she gave me this, 
charging me to deliver it on your fifteenth birthday. It is 
12 


134 


WHO WAS SHE? 


the only thing she left in trust for you. 1 Tell her,’ said 
she, and her voice was very weak, I remember how she 
struggled to utter the words, ‘ tell her that her mother wore 
it honorably.’ ” Ruth laid the serpent ring in Imogene’s 
extended hand, half fearful that the hideous emblem would 
hiss at being disturbed from its long sleep. “ It is a costly 
jewel ; I would not mention that I possessed it,” cautioned 
Ruth. 

“Not to any one , aunt?” She was thinking of Philip. 
It would be a secret from him. 

Mrs. Lee shook her head. 

“ Do you think my mother would have desired entire 
silence regarding it ? ” 

“ I have no doubt of it, Genie. She was particular about 
it, and never told me until she was dying. Out of regard 
for her unspoken wishes I have never mentioned it even to 
David. I term unspoken wishes the language of her eyes, 
which thus impressed me at the time, and as such I have 
ever since regarded it.” 

This was enough. Imogene was content, and turned the 
ring over in her hand, her face wearing a solemn, curious 
expression, different from any that Ruth had ever seen 
there before. “It is worth a fortune — ruby, emeralds, 
diamonds,” she said, carefully scanning the gems, and hold- 
ing it up to the dim light. She liked strange, gorgeous 
things, and the magnificent, unique jewel pleased her be- 
yond words. The doubt clinging to her birth, which had 
always haunted her, revived in new force. Who was she? 
Who was her mother? Not of the common people, and 
honorably possess a ring like this. The village had for- 
gotten to sneer at her birth, or to wonder at her mother’s 
history. “ Who was my mother ? who am I ? ” were exas- 
perating questions, that Imogene had wearied herself in 
asking. “ Oh ! to know something of my parentage ! ” was 
the deep, silent cry of her soul. Ruth feared it would come 


WHO WAS SHE? 


135 


to this ; but Elinor had died and left her powerless to soothe 
the torturing doubts, or explain away the innate cravings 
of the young creature — to fathom the mystery enshrouding 
the loved memory of her parent. Ruth read the child’s 
thoughts, and looked toward the bed, as if it could render 
a satisfactory account of Elinor’s unknown past. “ Who 
was Elinor ? ” There was no response ! But the doubt 
and distrust of her reserve had fallen like a blight on Imo- 
gene. The mother had bequeathed her intricate, mysteri- 
ous life, blemished intransmutably by vague doubts and 
suspicious obscurity, to the daughter — a bitter heritage, 
growing more bitter and torturing every year. Ruth’s face 
was troubled ; but the grave could not speak, and who of 
the living could tell ? She was forced to leave it there, and 
went out, leaving Genie alone. She kissed the ring, pressed 
it, looked at it, turned it over, and slipped it on and off 
a dozen times before returning it to the pearl box. Her 
thoughts were not all of Philip that night, for she got up twice 
to look at it, and the last time muttered : “ I am a charity 
child, but my mother was not a beggar, nor my father a 
pauper, though they left me both.” 

The first snow of the season all day had been whitening 
the earth, and a cold, stormy night set in, bleak and cheer- 
less ; but the Lee household, gathered around the blazing 
wood fire, paid little heed to the dismal inclemency of the 
weather. 

Davie sat on one side the shaded lamp, busily knitting 
a scarlet and white breakfast shawl, while Mrs. Lee placidly 
darned stockings on the other. David, leaning back in his 
comfortable arm-chair, alternately dozed and meditated, 
occasionally spreading out his hands in the ruddy fire- 
light, as if he quite appreciated the enjoyable sense of pos- 
sessing a warm, cheerful fireside, and a pretty, amiable 
wife and daughter. Imogene was not present, and Ruth 


136 


WHO WAS SHE? 


was about to remark her absence, when a loud rap resounded 
on the outer door. David hastened to admit whoever it 
might be, for it was a rough night to keep one waiting. A 
great stamping and shuffling in the passage indicated that 
the new-comer was well laden with snow, and premeditated 
spending the evening, by the care he took in shaking it from 
his overcoat and cap. Mr. Lee stood looking on, holding 
the candle above his head, in mystified wonder. Who on 
earth could it be? Ruth paused with her darning-needle 
suspended, and Davie dropped a loop in the scarlet stripe. 
At last David returned, closely followed by a tall, spare 
gentleman. The stranger had dark, auburn hair, and full, 
tawny whiskers and moustache. Yida politely offered a 
chair, but the stranger was so visibly agitated that he took 
no notice of the civility. After honoring him with a long, 
scrutinizing look, that was more curious than courteous, 
she cried, “ Why, it ’s Thad ! ” and sprang into his arms, with 
the half-finished breakfast-shawl a gay tangle at her feet. 

“ Bless my soul, so it is ! ” exclaimed David, grasping 
him by the hand. 

“ Ah ! indeed ; Thaddeus, my son ! ” Ruth’s voice, faint . 
with joy and surprise, caused him to put Davie aside and 
pick up that little woman in a strong, fond clasp ; and, with J 
her head upon his breast, he was not ashamed of the tear 
stealing over his bearded cheek. 

“ Dear, dear mother ; thank God for this blessed hour ! ” 
he murmured, chokingly. “ Father and sister all together 
again, thank God ! ” 

“ Amen ! ” answered every voice. 

Davie wiped her eyes, and went about recovering her 
precious worsteds, kicked anywhere on the floor. As soon 
as the happy hubbub subsided sufficiently to admit of 
thoughts and needs, Ruth bustled aw T ay to see about supper, , 
w T ell knowing that fasting after a long, cold day’s journey 
was not agreeable. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


137 


“ Phew ! what whiskers ! I vow, I am almost afraid of 
you,” said Davie, burying her hand in the tawny luxuri- 
ance to verify the assertion. 

Thaddeus did not reply, for he was looking beyond her 
sunny head at the beautiful apparition standing irresolutely 
in the doorway, as if doubting the propriety of advancing. 
It was very evident that Imogene was unaware of the 
stranger’s presence. She had not expected it, and lifted a 
hesitating, inquiring glance, first at Davie, and then to the 
stranger, before her countenance lighted up with recognition. 

“Surely, I should know this gentleman. Welcome 
home, Thaddeus.” She came quickly forward, and gave 
him her hand. 

“ Is it possible, Imogene ! And the welcome, is it strong 
enough to admit of a kiss ? I remember, you refused to 
grant one when I went away,” he replied, moved out of his 
habitual reserve by her witching beauty and grace. 

“ The ban is removed, the promise invalid, and there is 
my cheek,” she laughed, offering her blushing, face. 

He had never kissed her, and now the touch of her lips 
thrilled him to the very finger-tips. Davie might have 
smothered him in kisses, but the one little pressure of 
Genie’s dewy mouth touched a depth in Thad’s bosom that 
had never before been sounded. It astonished and alarmed 
him ; for, had he not always loved Vida, and disliked 
Imogene ? Oh, sophistical, inexplicable human heart, how 
i aimlessly you go drifting about on love’s turbulent sea ! Now 
» in the dangerous breakers, now dashing to pieces on hidden 
j reefs, now thumping on the strand or fast aground on some 
desolate barren shore, where remorseful waves or regretful 
i billows are continually dashing over your unanchored and 
i rudderless wreck! — why can’t you stay in the deep, peace- 
I ful soundings where there is safe tranquillity, and not go 
i 1 sailing heedlessly in shoal water to meet certain disappoint- 
ment and destruction ? — what was the use of Thaddeus 
12 * 


r 


138 


WHO WAS SHE? 


thinking of Imogene? — what was she to any one but 
Philip? — and Davie, she was his sister ; but Imogene was 
— different. 

Thaddeus insisted on occupying his old room under the 
roof, and bowed his tall form up the narrow stairway, feel- 
ing that it was good to be at home once more. He could 
hear the girls chattering in their room, and noticed the 
light creeping from under the door. 

“ Great alterations have taken place in the old house. I 
wonder if Mr. Lee allows afire in their sleeping apartment? 
If he does, then they can persuade him to anything, for 
I recollect that was his one strong and inexorable point,” 
thought Thaddeus, setting his candle down on an old trunk 
in the corner, which in the days of his boyhood did duty 
as a stand, and looking out into the storm. Who has not 
stood at a familiar window overlooking a familiar land- 
scape and watch a driving snow-storm through a hazy 
moonlight ? Yes, moonlight ; it is not incompatible with a 
white storm — the hills in winding sheets, the corn-stubble 
nicely covered, and rounded like little graves in long un- 
varying rows. Thaddeus put down the sash with a sigh. 
It was a cold greeting from nature, and the dark stretch of 
woodland seemed darker than ever it appeared before. 
One glimpse satisfied — it were pleasanter to go to bed and 
think of Imogene. 

A peep at the girls might not be uninteresting at the 
confiding hour of retiring, when Davie’s social soul dis- 
burdened itself of the day’s accumulated gossip, which she 
was famous for retailing in homoeopathic doses, in order to 
make as much as possible of the supply, to Imogene in the 
strict seclusion of their chamber. It may be bold of us to 
intrude, but we will pray pardon, and venture on the in- 
trusion. 

Davie let down the curtains, and, between shivering and 
disrobing, exclaimed : 




WHO WAS SHE? 


139 


“Now we will have our party! Ah! but ain’t Thad 
splendid ? I wonder if he can dance ? My ! did n’t he 
stare at you, though ? He was transfixed. I wish Lieu- 
tenant Shirley could have seen that look ; he ’d run him 
through to-morrow the first thing before bres&fast. If Phil 
would only get jealous, would n’t it be fun ? Ugh, how 
cold ! and the snow rattling against the window - panes. 
I ’m glad Thad ’s safe home, for the roads stand a fair 
chance of being impassable by morning. I did not know 
him at first; it was such a surprise. We are to have new 
dresses for the party ; and I mean to coax papa to let us 
have a fire in our room ; he is so dreadful stubborn there. 
But I mean to renew the siege, else I’ll perish with cold — 
a frost-bidden victim of his stern obstinacy. I don’t be- 
lieve it ’s so unhealthy as freezing, and that ’s what I am 
this minute. The sheets are ice — ugh! a veritable skating- 
pond,” ran on Davie, cuddling down in the bed, although 
visibly shrinking from the icy sheets. “ Now, don’t you, 
Genie,” she commanded in mild displeasure, lifting her 
head the better to urge her dissuasion of Imogene’s cruelty 
in pulling aside the curtain from the west window, leaving 
the glaring panes exposed, and all the outer sash clogged 
with snow, battered in the corners and packed against the 
glass in a manner perfectly woful to poor shuddering 
Davie, regarding her disapprovingly from the bed, with 
the clothes tucked about her neck in the attitude of an 
indignant turtle who was not aware whether it was best to 
leave his head in sight or not. “ Now don’t, Imogene ; a 
glaring window is next to a ghost, and makes me all 
creepy with shivers, and you will persist in looking out, 
though it is cold enough to freeze the Esquimaux, and 
nothing but a grave-yard to enliven the cheerful pros- 
pect.” 

“ And that is the main attraction,” said Imogene. “ I 
can almost distinguish my mother’s headstone through the 


140 


WHO WAS SHE? 


falling snow. If it were not for the storm, it would be 
beautiful moonlight.” 

“ Yes ; and if it was May, it would not be December,” 
dryly replied Davie. 

But ImogeUe took no notice. “ There is the button-ball- 
tree in the lane,” she continued, folding her arms on the 
sill, and putting out her head so far that the black curls 
were white with snow-flakes, “ and the haystacks beyond 
the gaunt old poplars, the lilacs in the garden, and the cur- 
rant-bushes one indistinguishable row.” 

“ Never mind viewing nature under such chilling dis- 
advantages,” recommended Davie. “It’s a mercy you 
don’t congeal. Come to bed ; I want to talk to you, and 
it ’s Greenland up there.” 

“ Oh, I don’t care for the cold. Just hear the old pear- 
tree groan, scratching and sawing against the house, as if 
it would like to get in.” 

“ I should think it did scrape and saw. If you keep on, 
you will certainly give me the nightmare. Put down the 
curtain, do! ” petulantly emphasized Davie from the pillow. 

“I like a storm,” said Genie, reluctantly closing the 
window, and fumbling for her night-dress among the numer- 
ous garments Davie had carelessly thrown on the chair at 
the foot of the bed. “ Yes ; fierce, drifting, driving, pelting 
storms. That is, when I feel fierce and stormy myself ; and 
sometimes I long for the languor and bloom of the tropics, 
for spicy Southern breezes, warm skies, and a perennial 
flower-teeming earth. I wonder where I was born ? ” 

“ In Iceland, on a floating iceberg, I should say, judging 
by your present taste and apparent enjoyment of cool sur- 
roundings,” irreverently responded Davie. “ I ’m as warm 
as toast, and your feet are sure to be clods. Have done 
with your vagaries. Who cares where they are born, so 
long as they are born? For pity sake don’t hatch up any 
new whim to get blue and glum about. There, I ’ll cover 




WHO WAS SHE? 


141 


my head, and you may stare at snowy grave-yards and 
listen to groaning pear-trees as leisurely and long as you 
please; I’m going to sleep,” resolutely concluded Davie, 
turning over with a jerk, face to the wall, and determinedly 
drawing the blankets over her ears. In two minutes she 
was in dream-land, only a bit of light hair being visible 
above the covering. 

A quarter of an hour later the dark locks of Imogene 
pressed the pillow, but the glowing face needed no warmth 
save that of the rich, vigorous blood flowing from heart to 
lips, and back again, in a hot, regular tide. 

It was very late when Ruth stole in to take a look at 
them, and make sure that they were comfortably tucked in 
their soft nest. Wrapped in a thick gray shawl, she stood 
looking at the two young sleepers. The candle she carried 
was low in the socket, indicating that not more than twenty 
minutes of light remained in it, but Ruth was not mindful 
of it : holding it so as to throw a partial light across the 
slumbering features of Genie, she softly laid her cheek on 
the young brow ; the action was sweeter, more loving, than 
a kiss. 

“ I have faithfully kept my trust, Elinor,” she whispered, 
“and as my own, have loved and cared for your child. A 
hard task you left me as guardian of this marvellous 
beauty. I can well believe that she comes of a proud, 
beautiful, self-willed race, for every feature bears the im- 
press of a haughty, unyielding lineage. And when this 
gifted, unsatisfied spirit chafes at its bondage, and demands 
a broader field than my home can give, where, Elinor, oh, 
where am I to find food to satisfy this soul-hunger, or 
strength to subdue the restless, discontented heart-yearn- 
ings of this rarely endowed nature ? ” As if in answer to 
her words, a soft spirit-voice breathed through all the room : 
“ In your love, Ruth, in your love” The still small voice 
banished her doubts, and, comforted by the heavenly admo- 


142 


WHO WAS SHE? 


nition, Ruth resolved to pray and not falter ; yet she feared, 
feared beyond her reason, a something which, like an evil 
presentiment, was intangible and inexplicable, but yet ever 
uppermost in her mind. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE PARTY. 

T HE all-eventful evening arrived, and both Imogene 
and Davie were in a high state of spirits. It was a 
grand epoch in their quiet existence, and they felt, espe- 
cially the latter, its responsibility and greatness, as the 
week of anxiety she had devoted to the dress and cake 
requisite for the occasion bore evidence. A good old- 
fashioned country party — what dear, delightful gatherings 
they are ! The sociality and good cheer is something to 
remember. The zest and innocent, pleasurable anticipa- 
tions and enjoyment of a girl’s first party, no amount of 
after splendid dissipation can destroy or dim. 

To-night Imogene was radiant in white and scarlet, a 
cluster of scarlet geraniums and a green leaf or two in her 
hair. A simple toilet, but it became her perfectly, and she 
wore it like a young princess. 

Davie was lovely in white tarlatan and blue ribbons, 
consequently not looking “a rag;” a single blush-rose in 
the yellow braids. For a month the infant bud had been 
anxiously watched, coaxed, and tended for this important 
occasion, and on the morning of the party had the grati- 
tude and grace to bloom full and fragrant as ever a winter 
rose could, ambitious of dying amid the burnished gold 
of Davie’s hair. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


143 


By half-past nine the parlor was full. Of course Philip 
and Thaddeus were the lions of the evening. The tall, 
reticent, tawny-whiskered lawyer, and the lively, agreeable, 
plain-featured young officer were the cynosures of every 
bright-eyed Alden belle. Thad was the handsomer, but 
so grave that the girls declared they were afraid of him ; 
consequently, the little lieutenant was the favorite, ready 
to laugh, talk, and dance with the merriest. 

Without recourse to mullein-leaves, Davie’s round cheeks 
threatened as deep a carnation as Genie’s, and, vigorously 
fanning, from the unwanted exercise of the first quadrille, 
she said : 

“Goodness, where did Phil learn to dance so well?” 
looking toward that youthful soldier, who was whirling 
about the room with his arm around Susie Johnson’s trim 
waist. 

Genie hid a frown, and shut the red lips tight, as if to 
control the bitter words trembling on her tongue. 

“ Ask Miss Susie, she may know,” was the short, sar- 
castic answer. The sarcasm was lost on Davie. 

“ I ’m engaged for the next waltz with him. Oh, but 
ain’t Susie in the seventh heaven ! she will talk of nothing 
else for a week. No doubt he learned his steps at that dread- 
ful Benny Haven’s, whose virtues he .sings with a detestable 
“ O ” for a final flourish ; and so particular in his dress, 
when he used to look like a scarecrow. I can remember 
him hatless, shoeless, and jacketless, and what was left 
much in need of repairs. Do you dance, Thad ? ” 

“No.” 

“ How provoking ; but you are such an old grandfather,” 
said lively Davie, walking off on the arm of Fred Carter 
to mingle with the gay dancers. Thaddeus planted him- 
self against the wall abstractedly, knitting his brows as he 
watched the merry throng go laughingly by. No amount 
of bright smiles and shy, covert glances were strong enough 


144 


WHO WAS SHE? 


to allure him from his self-imposed isolation. He saw but 
one of all those young, graceful girls. A moment before, 
Imogene had been standing by his side, but now she was 
sitting at the piano, playing brilliant waltzes for the com- 
pany. How different her touch from that which preceded 
it ! Everybody noticed it and the performer ; then the 
magic music sent them all whirling again in time to the 
harmony. Thaddeus observed that the brow was now 
clear, the beautiful face animated, the whole dark aspect 
changed to gay vivaciousness. But whence the cloud ? 
It troubled him, and involuntarily his gaze went over to 
her, more fixed and penetrating than he was conscious of. 
Philip, happening to pass by at the instant, followed his 
eye, and remarked, meaningly, “ Have a care, Thad. Look, 
but do not get intoxicated. You have travelled somewhat 
remote from this place, but did you ever behold any crea- 
ture so beautiful as yon fairy-fingered player ? ” 

“ No.” 

The short answer fell curtly from the lawyer’s com- 
pressed lips. Phil laughed maliciously, assuming a pro- 
vokingly familiar air : “ Futile, my dear fellow ; absolutely 
futile. I was her sworn friend, when others, to put it 
mildly, disliked her.” 

“You are modest,” sneered Thaddeus, giving him a dis- 
dainful look. 

“ And you are jealous,” returned Phil, smiling sarcas- 
tically. 

“You mistake, young man. I admire Imogene as I 
would a rare, perfect painting — a work of art infused with 
warm, breathing life. She is a most beautiful, lovable, and 
gifted girl, and will make a dear, unmanageable, dangerous 
woman. Once, in my biased affection for Davie, I unjustly 
overlooked Imogene. Now, I esteem and highly honor her 
as she deserves. I can afford to be generous, for well I 
know that Davie is by far the better blest.” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


145 


“Your compliments sound rather ambiguous. Sour 
grapes, I fancy,” muttered Phil, moving away. 

The music had ceased, and with it had vanished Imo- 
gene. In the general buzz of conversation that followed, 
Thaddeus also made his escape. 

The evening, which had promised so much pleasure to 
Genie, so far, was a miserable failure. Philip had neglected 
her entirely — had laughed, and talked, and flirted with 
every girl in the room without paying her the slightest 
attention. She had tried to forget it, but it was so irksome 
feigning mirth and gayety when she was feeling so utterly 
wretched. Slighted, neglected, forgotten — the thought 
would come in defiance of contrary reasoning, and she 
crept through the sitting-room and hid herself in the dark 
stairway, where Thad stumbled over her when going up to 
his dormitory. 

“ What, you, Genie ! why, what are you doing here ? ” 
he exclaimed, in surprise. 

“ Oh ! getting cool ; it ’s so warm in there,” she replied, 
evasively, standing to one side and making room for him 
to pass. 

“Getting cold, you mean,” said he, putting his hand 
kindly on her shoulder; then lower, almost a whisper, “Are 
you happy, Genie? ” 

“ Happy ! ” The vacancy in her voice and the doubtful 
| look she turned on him were painful to hear and see. 

! “ Happy ! are any of us happy, Thaddeus ? ” 

“ Yes ; in a certain sense, Davie is happy.” 

“ Davie, I know, but — but the capacity is not large enough 
to hold much depth of what we call the opposite of happiness 
— sorrow. The shallow brook, not being deep, must needs 
; run merrily along its course, accepting the sunshine and the 
i dew, but never asking from whence it came ; and the great 
j storms which lash the dark, fathomless waters into all sorts 
! of furious commotions, leave the little, peaceful stream 
13 


146 WHO WAS SHE? 

undisturbed. It’s very weakness saves it. Davie can’t 
help being bappy .” 

“ Then you depreciate our Davie’s simple, truthful, lov- 
ing nature ? ” said Thaddeus, uneasily. 

“You are wrong — I envy it.” She sighed, sat down on 
the step, and again motioned him to pass ; but he did n’t. 

“What ails you, Genie? you are young to talk so 
bitterly.” 

“Young! I am a hundred years old; and I do wish, 
Thad, that I had not the power of thinking. It is a horri- 
ble thing to be always thinking, and never able to make 
your thoughts clear. What is thought?” she suddenly 
demanded, grasping him by the arm, as if she would 
know — as if he must tell her. 

He was amazed at her unexpected vehemence. “ Thought, 
rightly directed, is noble and godlike. It is the secret of 
power, and governs the world ; but yours are morbidly per- 
verted, I fear ; falsely colored, and depressed by trying to 
dive deeper than your years. Time will straighten it. I 
used to stumble under the burden of my own ideas, and 
grope about after that which later years brought of them- 
selves-without the pain of struggling to obtain it by a pre- 
mature and exhausting search. Keep the lamps you have 
trimmed, but do not strive to light others until you are 
sure they contain oil sufficient to keep them burning. Now 
run back to your guests, and good night. They will not 
miss a grum old fellow like me.” 

He pressed her hand, and saw the chamber-door close 
behind her. He stood alone on the stairs. “ Poor child ! 
she is unhappy from the neglect Sf that egotistical, pre- 
suming young Shirley. Confound 4iis impudence ! But I 
could not tell her so — I dare not. It would have sent a 
flame to her eyes that I would not care to kindle. She 
may mourn ; but, if I remember the old spirit, she will per- 
mit no one to censure his conduct.” The face in his dreams. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


147 


that night was dark and beautiful, and “ happy ” was all 
the lips could echo, like something she had never possessed. 

Emerging from the dark stairway, Imogene felt a hand 
clasp hers. “ Oh ! here you are, deserter. A fine chase 
you have led me. Now give an account of yourself.” 

Philip drew her into the sitting-room, and seeing her sad 
face, asked more seriously : “ What ’s the matter ; are you * 
not well ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, what is the matter, then ? ” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ That won’t do. When a girl says there is nothing the 
matter, you may be certain that the deuce is to pay. Some- 
thing is wrong, else why this troubled look ? Come, now, 
Gypsy, let ’s have it.” 

She did not answer, but he felt her trembling, a sign that 
he knew with her boded a burst of tears. 

“ If you will not speak, let me look in your eyes, and I 
can guess.” 

He took her face between his hands, the white lids 
drooping over the dark orbs slowly lifted. The magnetic 
gaze above raised them without her will, and the smaller, 
sharper, stronger eyes were looking straight into the soft, 

: liquid velvet of hers. 

' “I have it! ” dropping her face and walking half across 
the room, only to turn and come back again, an odd mix- 
ture of power, love, and self-vanity expressed in his tone 
i and manner. “ Slighted again, eh, Gyp ? ” 

“You are cruel,” she said, making a great effort to con- 
trol the quiver in her voice. 

“ Am I, when I love you better than myself? Is it quite 
i just, Gypsy?” His kiss and breath was on her lips, and 
| — and she was happy. 

“ Do you love me, Philip, best of them all? ” 

“You know I do, if you will reason, and not get jealous 


148 


WHO WAS SHE? 


so quick. Now, don’t you cry, for I want to dance with 
you half a dozen times yet,” rejoined Philip, passing his 
hands over her face to see if it were wet — it was quite dark 
in their corner — a method he employed for ascertaining 
the state of the feminine heart through the sympathetic 
eyes. “ But there is one thing I want to impress upon your 
mind : here, now, always, everywhere, that, no matter what 
I say, do, or look, you are to remember that I love you 
best, first, and last, and that all other attentions are light, 
trifling, for the hour, and nothing more. Don’t mind any- 
thing else, and your faith will spare you these cruel heart- 
aches.” 

“ Not Susie Johnson ? ” Imogene asked, dubiously. Philip 
had not quite succeeded in laying the ghost. 

“So she was your particular trouble. You over-esti- 
mated her and underrate yourself by thinking I could 
neglect you for her.” 

“ But she likes you, Philip,” mournfully remonstrated 
Genie, as if it were a solemn matter to like him. 

“ And so does somebody else, whom I like a thousand 
times better. Susie is a silly, good-natured creature, who 
dances quite well. Now you have my opinion of her ; and 
as the wound is healed, we ’ll to the festive hall again.” 
Not, however, until he had kissed back all the smiles and 
sparkle. 

“ Oh, you truants ! ” cried Davie, spying them in a 
twinkling. “Thad has disappeared, and shabby of him, 
too, considering he is such an important personage, and 
half the party in his honor, besides,” she chided, in a 
tumult of agitation, lest Phil and Genie had also deserted 
her at the most trying period of her life. 

“ Do you know,” whispered Philip, when they were alone 
by the window, that I saw some one looking love at you to- 
night, deep, intense, soul-love, such as his heart will never 
cherish or produce again ? ” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


149 


“ Poor fellow ! ” commiserating! y rejoined Genie, glancing 
askance from under her black lashes. “ Poor fellow ! I am 
sorry for him ; but you deserved the punishment.” 

“ No punishment at all. I laughed at the poor devil, for 
I was so confident of your love, that I did not honor him 
by a single jealous thought. I would not fear a score of 
gallant lovers sighing at your feet. I know my Gypsy too 
well.” 

“ You are over-confident,” saucily flashing back his look 
of conscious power. 

“ Pooh, don’t I know that I have but to speak and I am 
supreme.” 

“ You are wonderfully conceited, Mr. Lieutenant; of that 
there can be no doubt. I may astound you yet by my in- 
constancy, so do not be too certain of the stableness of your 
conquest. Easy won, easy lost, and fickleness belongs to 
my sex,” warned Imogene. 

“ I know it, but not to you. You are mine ; it is written, 
and thus be it,” he replied, part gayly, part gravely, float- 
ing away in the circle of waltzers. 

After all, the party was a brilliant success. Imogene was 
forced to acknowledge the truth, and wonder why she could 
have been so stupid as to skulk off and sit jealous and cross 
on the stairs, to be stumbled over by Thad, and afterward 
make a fool of herself by talking imbecile stuff about 
thpught. She was ashamed of it, and hoped Thad would 
forget it by morning. Why, thought was happiness, and 
it lay in her bosom that night in the form of a simple name 
— Philip. 

As for Davie, she vowed parties just the most splendid 
institutions in the universe, and dancing the greatest inven- 
tion of mankind or womankind, whichever it might be, and 
music the most delightful invention of it all. She voted 
Terpsichore a sensible muse, and declared herself a devotee 
of her witching art. 

13 * 


WHO WAS SHE? 


1Kf> 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE SLEIGH-RIDE. 

I T was a gay season with the young people of Alden, for 
in a week Thaddeus and Philip were to depart for their 
distant and separate fields of action, and it was but meet 
that the few remaining days should contribute their full 
share of pleasure. The day before his departure, a hand- 
some sleigh, drawn by a fine chestnut horse, dashed up to 
David Lee’s door, and Philip sprang from among the white 
bear-skins. A quick, ringing step came along the frozen 
path, a hasty knock, and the young officer made his entree 
into the presence of Mrs. Lee and her daughters, bringing 
a whiff of cool air in his train. After the usual intimate 
greetings had taken place all round, he said to Imogene : 

“ Come, Gypsy, put on your things ; there never was such 
sleighing. Zephyr is in admirable speed and spirits, and 
skims the road like a bird.” 

Genie looked at Mrs. Lee for permission to accept his 
invitation. Since noon she had been in a fever of restless 
excitement and watching expectation. The tinkling bells 
of the restive chestnut did not surprise her when they 
stopped under the maples, although she pretended to be as 
unconscious as Davie. 

“ It is very cold,” remonstrated Ruth, glancing out of the 
window. “ A very cold day, indeed, and it is after two 
o’clock. It will be a severe evening. I hardly think it 
prudent for Genie to go.” 

“ Oh, I have plenty of robes, and she can bundle up warm. 
Never fear but I ’ll take care of her. This is my last sleigh- 
ride, and you will not be so cruel as to refuse me Gypsy’s 
company this time ? ” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


151 


It was a powerful argument in his favor, but Ruth was 
still reluctant, and took a longer survey of the icy aspect 
from the window. 

“ I do not like to deny you, Philip, hut — ” 

“ Oh ! then, Aunt Ruth, don’t,” broke in Genie ; “ Phil 
always takes good care of me, and I am not afraid of the 
cold.” 

Ruth had not the heart to offer any further objections, 
although she had serious misgivings as to the wisdom of 
granting the request. Imogene flew up stairs for her wrap- 
pings, Davie tripping on behind to see that the numerous 
shawls and cloaks the good Ruth particularly enjoined were 
rightly adjusted, and was confounded at Genie’s singular 
trepidation and alarming absence of mind. 

“Are you daft, that you hunt in my work-basket for 
your muff? And I am positive your hood and gloves are 
not under the pincushion, that you knock it over so rudely. 
Here they are. Let me fix your fur collar. You are 
charming, upon my life. There, you are bundled shape- 
less,” said Davie, deftly helping her tie and button and 
pin. 

Genie was but too glad to get out of doors ; the keen air 
felt refreshing on her hot cheeks — the black ringlets peep- 
i ng from the crimson hood framed in a face of rich beauty, 
lighted by bewildering soft black eyes, that now were full of 
blended feeling, alarmed anxiety, and hopeful, eager love 
and trust. Cold ? She was burning, and the crisp snow 
seemed to melt beneath her nervous footsteps. She looked 
toward the house, along the row of frosty upper windows, 
and her gaze centred on the east bedroom, close-curtained 
and tenantless. 

Davie was shivering in the door, heroically sacrificing 
her dear comfort that she might see them off. Philip was 
fixing something about Zephyr’s impatient head, backing 
and jerking at the halter so viciously that he was obliged 


152 


WHO WAS SHE? 


to shorten him up, in order to keep him quiet long enough 
to help her in the sleigh. When the chestnut found his 
nose close against the hitching-post, he consented to remain 
reasonably stationary, and Phil tucked his companion 
snugly and securely in among a pile of white robes, re- 
leased Zephyr’s insulted nose, sprang to his place beside her, 
shook the reins, the bells took up their silvery chime, and 
away they flew, the swift feet of the chestnut filling the air 
with miniature su 9 w-balls, the heat of his sides forming 
frost on his glossy, dark coat, and the steam from his wide 
nostrils, congealed* to ice, met the frozen foam from his 
champing bit. The hot breath, puffing out faster and faster, 
whitened his breast, -and in an hour the dark chestnut was 
gray, yet Phil kept him> to the road with unabated speed. 
Trees and fences whirled by, the iron-shod hoof- beats 
sounding sharp and regular 6n the hard, gratingly yielding 
snow. Mile after mile were passed, the farm-house was far 
behind, and as yet neither of the .occupants of the sleigh 
had intruded their voice upon the music of the bells. 
Philip slipped his arm about his companion : 

“ You have not spoken a jyc^d since w r e started; — now 
give me a kiss, you statue of silence, and don’t be so chary 
of your smiles.” 

She dutifully obeyed, and he whispered something that 
sent the black eyes down to the white robes in blushing 
confusion. “ Mrs. Lee was so afraid that you would freeze, 
and your lips are burning ; but they are not unpleasant to 
my taste. Fifteen miles more of this steady pace, and 
then ” — 

“ And then,” she repeated, dreamily, as if the sentence 
were complete without being finished — 

“You shall say that this is the happiest sleigh-ride of 
your life.” 

He looked at her fondly, and drew her closer to him. 

“ They think us a boy and girl, but I love you, Gypsy ; 


WHO WAS SHE? 


153 


love you better and different than I did in our school-days. 
We are young, but we are not too young for loving. Mrs. 
Lee feared the cold ; but I guess she feared something else 
a good deal more.” 

“ What, Philip?” 

“ Why that you were getting too old, too much of a 
young lady, to be loved and kissed and fondled by such a 
bear as I. She is a clever little woman, and it troubles her 
tender conscience, dimly divining that, mere children as 
we are, we may find our hearts, and, not being blessed with 
the wisdom that comes of age, we may do something im- 
prudent. Oh, wise Aunt Ruth ! ” 

Imogene looked alarmed. “ Oh, Phil, don’t speak lightly 
of one who loves and cares for me better than I deserve. 
Do you think we are acting mean and deceitful toward 
dear Aunt Ruth ? I ’d rather die than be thought ungrate- 
ful. I never thought of it before, but we are acting ungen- 
erously, Philip.” The troubled look she gave him was full 
of new anxiety, but the youth knew how to dispel it. 

“ We are acting as your mother would have sanctioned. 
She asked me to love you, and have I not, all my life, 
Gypsy ? ” 

“ Yes; but” — 

“Never mind conjuring up discordant doubts; you must 
agree with me. I know best,” he interrupted, in playful 
authority, the beardless boy-face lighting up, and the dark, 
sharp eyes piercingly bright. 

“ Keep your hand in your muff, or Aunt Ruth will scold 
me for allowing it to get frost-bitten.” 

“It ’s so hot — the cold feels good,” she replied, holding 
it ou£ that the floating particles of frost in the air might 
fall on its sm'ooth white surface. 

“ Who will love me next week ? ” she said, after ’a pause. 

“ I will, pet Gypsy, just as well as if I were here. When 
I went away before, you mourned that the years would be 




154 


WHO WAS SHE? 


so long ; but they were not, and here we are, loving each 
other better than ever, and the next time we meet it will 
be never to part. Only two years of separation at most, 
and then you are mine for good and all. I ’ll claim you 
boldly then, and those who please may think and question 
as they like. Perhaps I ’ll be a captain by that time. The 
pay is not much, but you would not be afraid to risk it on 
that, would you?” Imogene’s eyes looked her willing- 
ness. 

“ I knew you would not hesitate to rough it with me any- 
where ; and though we do have hard times following the 
drum, we ’ll be together, and that ’s the balm.” 

“ Oh, I wish the two years were over — past, gone for- 
ever — that I might go with you now. But they lie so 
dark between, I can scarcely discern the light beyond,” 
sighed Gypsy. “You will write every mail; letters are 
months coming over those desolate plains, months in cross- 
ing from you to me, and there is another pain, Phil.” 

“A pain that you must ease by keeping a brave heart in 
your bosom. Be hopeful, and keep all our love and secrets 
to yourself. Wise little head and devoted heart, how un- 
necessary it is for me to caution ! Now laugh and be gay, 
for I want to remember this day as the most blessed of my 
life ! When I am away on those desolate plains, with a 
tent for shelter and hard-tack for food, and bloody Injuns 
for game, I want to remember how beautiful and light- 
hearted my Gypsy was on this fifth day of January, else 
there may be some remorseful sadness mingled with it.” 
With all the astuteness of youth, Philip argued away her 
pensiveness, that was almost like regretful sorrow, he fan- 
cied ; and the next chord he touched vibrated with the old 
tender, impulsive love. “ You know, Gypsy, we are but 
fulfilling* the promise made under the lilacs. We plighted 
our troth long, long ago, and we will keep the faith. 
Would you have it otherwise, darling?” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


155 


“ Dear, dear Phil, I would not have it otherwise, and we 
will keep the faith.” 

Gone all the doubt and the gloom, her arm went around 
his neck in the fond, grateful, child-way, unmindful alike 
of the intense cold or the impropriety of embracing a 
young officer, though he be an accepted lover, in an open 
sleigh. But they were quite alone in the lonely road, and 
what was the harm, when the silly, loving, young things 
cared for nothing in the world but themselves ? 

“Now you are Gypsy,” cried Philip, hugging her so 
tight that he endangered her breath. Then followed a 
deal of kissing and whispering ; indeed, it was splendid 
sleighing — a happy, glorious sleigh-ride. 

When Farmer Shirley’s pet chestnut drew up before Mr. 
Lee’s door the second time, the gallant animal looked as 
if he had had a severe drive. There was no necessity for 
tying him short this time ; but he was very willing to stand 
quiet ; and the dilated nostrils and trembling flanks seemed 
to imply that Zephyr had been put to his mettle. It was 
an hour after sunset, but the few glittering stars scattered 
over the cold, steel-blue heavens showed the smoking con- 
dition of the horse, and warned Philip to get him into his 
stable as soon as possible. 

“ I ’ll drive right home,” said he, “ and come around to- 
morrow. Father will raise the deuce if he sees Zephyr in 
this plight ; but I ’ll take care that he don’t. By Jove, he 
has travelled since sundown, but it was do or die.” He 
lifted her out, whispered, “ Think of me in your dreams, 
pet,” and gave her a kiss, which she returned with a chok- 
ing gasp and a convulsive clinging to him, under cover 
of freeing herself from the robes. 

“Good night, Philip; early to-morrow ; it — it’s the last 
day.” There were tears in her voice, but she bravely 
forced them back. 

“ I ’ll be on hand early. Mind, only sweet thoughts to- 


156 


WHO WAS SHE? 


night,” a hurried little hand-clasp, and she ran up the path, 
pausing on the door-stone while he turned around. The 
receding bells brought Davie to admit her, full of questions 
and offers of assistance. 

“Well, did you have a nice ride? It was shabby of 
Phil not to ask me. Let me take off your things,” and 
volubly talking and kindly aiding, Davie at last ushered 
Imogene into the sitting-room, and saw her speedily divested 
of her many wrappings before continuing. “I waited 
supper for you. It ’s stupid taking tea alone, and mother 
is not home. Gone to Mrs. Carter’s — they sent for her ; 
Ada’s got the croup, or something or other of the kind. I 
think there must be two stars less in the firmament by the 
brilliancy of your eyes, and the saucy frost has pinched 
your cheeks as red as my rosebuds. It always makes me 
hungry to ride in the cold — come and have a nice cup of 
tea and a biscuit ; Hetty says they are extra fine — piping 
hot from the oven. Oh, you need not look so indifferent. | 
Hot biscuits are not to be despised, even after Philip Shirley 
and his fine turnout, which is not his. Why didn’t he 
come in?” rattled on Davie, leading the way to the dining- 
room and the hot biscuits, and briskly pouring out a cup 
of fragrant tea. 

“ The horse was warm, and he dare not leave him stand- 
ing in the cold,” said Gypsy. She did not care for the 
cup of tea Davie placed before her, but she made a pre- 
tence of sipping it, and was a long time in judging about 
the proper quantity of milk and sugar. Davie, on the 
contrary, bit into her biscuit with a keen appreciation of 
its wholesomeness, evincing, notwithstanding the absorb- 
ing topic they were discussing, that she possessed a sub- 
stantial appetite. Carefully buttering the second one, she 
suddenly propounded the startling inquiry, “ Where did 
you go?” 

“ Oh, we drove about just where Zephyr chose to take 


WHO WAS SHE? 


157 


us,” returned Genie, adding more sugar to her already 
three-times sweetened tea. 

“ Now, look here,” said Davie, solemnly pausing in the 
act of buttering the tempting soft of her third smoking 
biscuit. “ If Philip allowed his horse to go as he liked, 
he is in love with you, certain, positive, and sure. I’m 
not quite a novice, and know the sign. When a young 
gentleman is indifferent regarding the speed, gait, and 
direction of his horse, you may rest assured that something 
is wrong with his heart. I ’ve been riding with Phil, he 
was always taking about a square trot, a good head, and 
a two-twenty-four stride, and all that sort of horse-jockey 
slang, whatever it may mean. I am convinced that he is 
loving or fixing to love you ; so beware of his toils, fair 
Imogene.” 

The comic attitude of firmness she assumed, together 
with the warningly suspended knife and neglected remain- 
ing half of the third biscuit, was too much even for Genie’s 
not easily provoked risibles. 

“ Why, Davie, how silly of you ! I ’m but fifteen, and 
ever so far from love yet,” laughed she. “ Only fifteen, 
Davie.” 

“ Can’t help it,” she replied, laconically, seriously eying 
the edge of her plate. “Love at fifteen is as perilous 
as love at fifty. Love at all periods is dangerous, and 
full of troubles,” delivered with a sanctimonious rising of 
the eyelids. “Yea, full of trials and perplexing cares; 
yet I presage that I will see you married to Philip Shirley, 
U. S. A. in initials.” 

“Never,” she returned, hastily. “You are a false pro- 
phetess ; the prediction will never come to pass, for you 
will never see me marry Philip, nor any one else. Dis- 
abuse your imaginative mind of the fallacy ; it can never, 
never be.” 

“ Goodness, you need not get so earnest about it, nor 
14 


158 


WHO WAS SHE? 


sweeten your tea the fifth time,” said Davie, regarding her 
in amazement that she should take her light words so seri- 
ously. 

Imogene laughed constrainedly, and reflectively balanced 
her spoon on the edge of her cup. “ You are as near wed- 
ding Thad as I am Phil, and when you experience the one, 
mayhap you will see the other/’ 

“ Then it is not inevitable. I have been so in the habit 
of obeying Thad, that if he should say, ‘Stand up, Miss 
Davie Lee, I have concluded to marry you, and there is no 
other alternative,’ I have not the least doubt but what I 
should rise instantly and meekly to my feet, and dutifully 
repeat the responses, without a thought of refusing him. 
However, I am glad you have decided not to have Phil. 

I ’ll appropriate him myself; that is, if he will let me, and 
Thad don’t propose meanwhile.” 

Imogene sat silent, paying little attention to her com- 
panion’s lively prattle. This roused her just indignation. 

% “ Well, of all the oddities, I must say you are the oddest. 

Here you sit, grave as an owl, just after an hilarious sleigh- 
ride, which would have given me a cause to expatiate for a 
week ; and it’s too bad he is going away so soon ! To-mor- 
row bids adieu to our little soldier-boy. When Phil comes 
again, we will be too big for romping around and kissing 
indiscriminately. We will be obliged to play the ‘ decorous 
young lady,’ demure in manners and speech, commencing 
our remarks with a precise ‘ Mr.’ But what ’s the use of 
talking? you will not listen, and all my eloquence is wasted 
on deaf ears.” 

This brought Davie to the chamber door. Still offended, 
she disrobed in silence, although it cost her a deal of misery 
to keep so during the brief half-hour intervening between 
hair-pins and the pillow. Blessed sleep soothed her griev- i 
ance, much to Imogene’s relief, who lay awake long after 
she was asleep, thinking, until her brain and heart ached : 


WHO WAS SHE? 


159 


with the burden of thought: “Dear Philip, my dreams, 
waking, or sleeping, forever shall be of thee ! ” She fell 
away into slumber with the fond words on her lips, “forever 
shall be of thee — of thee ! ” 



I - 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

GOOD-BY. 

T HE next day, when Philip came to bid the Lees good- 
by, Imogene dared not give him her hand, it trembled 
so violently at the last moment of his stay. He rose to go, 
and then her face actually became ashy, and the wild eyes 
fastened on him, a world of agony in the gaze — a prayer- 
I ful, beseeching, idolatrous look, that sent a faintness to his 
I heart and a mist to his eyes. It made him frantic to catch 
her up and proclaim to Ruth, to Davie, to everybody, that 
I he loved her, and that — madness ! what would it avail ? 
He must go just the same ; but he could not leave her, with 
that unspoken prayer in her eyes unheard. How could he 
manage to see her alone? Imogene solved the question, 
j Turning her face away, she forced a gay manner and lively 
i tone : “ Wait a minute, prospective chieftain, and, if not 
; presumptuous, I will accompany you a little way on the 
march to glory,” and, snatching up her hood and shawl, 

! she was out of the door before any one could object. She 
! had the start of Philip, but he was not long in overtaking 
i her. Ruth looked after them anxiously, but said nothing, 
j! How could she? They were such old playmates, and so 
I very young. 

When clear of the house, Imogene’s overstrained courage 
broke down completely. “ I can’t believe you are going. I 


160 


WHO WAS SHE? 


will not have it so. I cannot, oh, I cannot let you go,” she 
sobbed, clinging to him, as if her weak hands could detain 
him against all greater powers. 

“But you must,” said the young officer, gently disen- 
gaging the clinging hands and imprisoning them in his 
strong, warm grasp. “You must be brave and reasonable, 
and bid me a cheerful, hopeful God-speed. I know it is 
hard, but you do not sorrow alone. Think how I, separated 
from everything, shall miss my darling. The pain is 
divided, Gypsy, and we will each bear our half, knowing 
that our love and faith is secure, that our hearts are one, as 
our lives, and that I go to win the means of support which 
shall give me the right to claim you.” 

“Forgive me, Philip; I have been selfish, and thought 
only of myself. I am unjust, I know ; but since yesterday 
a terrible fear has seized me, that — that you will forget 
me — that you will weary of my love. I can’t put the 
cruel doubt into words, or wrong you by their utterance ; 
but, oh, Philip, if the time should ever come, let me die, 
but never let me live to know that you love me less than 
now. Oh, God, I can almost read the future, and beyond 
the veil I see the dreadful doubt a baleful reality. I see 
— I see — ” 

Her terrified eyes, fixed as it seemed on the awful spectre 
her distraught mind shadowed forth, suddenly closed, her 
head fell to his arm, and her cheek laid like snow against 
his sleeve. Poor Imogene had fainted, and lay like a 
corpse in his arms. 

He knew every nerve was strung to the highest tension, 
but he had not looked for this, or the new distracted fear 
possessing her of his own unfaithfulness. It staggered him 
for an instant, when he recovered his presence of mind 
and busied himself in restoring her to consciousness. A 
piteous sigh soon told of his success. Kissing her cold 
face, he whispered, “I don’t know you after all, Gypsy, for 


WHO WAS SHE? 


161 


I thought you were made of sterner stuff, and you have 
disappointed me by an out-and-out faint, as well as prophe- 
sying terrible things of me,” making a miserable effort to 
smile. “You have known me all your life — are you afraid 
to trust me now ? ” 

“ No, no, Philip ; but the thing came over me so real 
that it benumbed my senses. I saw it, so near, so palpable, 
so appalling — a vision, a fancy, a chimera of the brain, 
call it what you will, but hideously natural, with your face 
and form, but your heart was not the same ; I saw it plain, 
and the love of to-day was not there. It was defaced and 
tarnished by something else, and the fearful sight stopped 
the throbbing of mine.” 

“ What a silly vision, and what a silly girl to believe it ! 
Before God, no other woman ever has or ever will supplant 
you in my love. Never , so heaven help me, Gypsy. You 
fill my heart, you ever have, and ever shall, and may the 
life be stricken out of me if ever it harbors a thought of 
another. Why, I could n’t, Gypsy, and you ought to know 
it.” He looked hurt, although he kept caressing her fore- 
head. 

“Oh! it was not that I feared you would love any 
woman better. It was not that, Phil ; I am fixed there. 
No, no ; it was not that.” 

“ What the mischief was it, then — fainting away from 
imaginary jealousy, and a woman not the cause ? You are 
certainly suggestive of a strait-jacket.” 

“I don’t know, but I was not jealous: it was as if you 
loved me better than yourself, and yet sacrificed us both 
for a skeleton thing that was not worthy of the sacrifice. 
It’s gone now. I’ll not be so foolish again; you are not 
cross? ” 

“Cross with you? what, now, when I am so soon to leave 
you.” He folded her in his arms, close to his breast, in a 
long, convulsive clasp. The tremulous sob in his voice 
14 * 


162 


WHO WAS SHE? 


hushed the moan in Imogene’s. A long, long, passionate 
kiss, a choking good-by, Philip broke from her detaining 
arms, and was gone. 

Imogene looked after him, wringing her hands in anguish 
and huskily calling his name ; but the wind brought back 
no response to her pitiful cry. Dropping to her knees, the 
snow cold beneath, the heavens cold above, she clasped her 
shaking hands above her white face, mourning in saddest 
accents: “We are parted! we are parted! Oh, Philip, 
forever parted ! ” Staggering to her feet, she blindly turned 
homeward, still calling, despairingly, “ Philip ! Philip ! 
Philip ! ” in a voice little above a whisper. How she lived 
through that wretched night she never knew, but she did ; 
and hid her feelings so effectually that no one guessed her 
misery. 

It took a week for life to revolve back again into the old 
grooves, and summon the old patient spirit of watching 
and waiting. Imogene gave no heed to Thad’s departure. 
Davie’s plaintive lamentations and Ruth’s silent sorrow 
were nothing to her. She could not share their grief, for 
her soul was suffering keener pangs than theirs / could ever 
know or understand. 

She hardly raised her eyes when Thaddeus approached 
to say farewell. “ Good-by, Imogene, may I take what you 
refused me before, and granted afterward ? ” 

“ No, never again. The ban is once more all-powerful.” 
The words were playful, but her look was cold. 

“ And the ban is — Philip” 

She regarded him frigidly. “You are extremely delicate 
in your observations, Mr. Ruggles, and exceedingly rapid 
in your conclusions. Your imagination anticipates what 
others do not presume to remark upon ; ” and, with a slight 
bow, Imogene left him to ponder at her haughty conduct 
as he liked. Her freezing manner quenched the love-spark 
just glimmering into a flame, and left his bosom barren of 


WHO WAS SHE? 


163 


Imogene. He knew where her heart was then ; irretriev- 
ably Philip Shirley’s, to bless or curse. He thought the 
latter, yet prayed the first. It was useless for him to think 
of her, utterly useless ; but he had, and there was marvel- 
lous sweetness in the spell she had unconsciously thrown 
about him. It was over, the glamour, the hope, and the 
sweetness ; he would go back to his toil, and forget her. 
Davie’s plentiful shower of tears somewhat compensated 
for Imogene’s coldness, and he felt a strange, guilty thrill 
that he had preferred another kiss to hers. The lively, 
affectionate little soul had nothing below the surface to 
mar the sunshine of her happy face. Through the frank 
blue eyes he could see the innocent, open heart — childish, 
but good and pure, and incapable of either wrong acts or 
wrong thoughts. Again he felt that Davie was by far the 
better blessed. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

DAVIE SPEAKS HER MIND. 

T HE marked change in Imogene’s character was notice- 
able even to Davie. Every day she grew more thought- 
ful and fonder of being alone. She never liked work, and 
Mrs. Lee had long ago ceased to urge her assistance in 
household affairs. She never refused, but it was evidently 
so distasteful and irksome that Mrs. Lee could not find it 
in her nature to insist on her taking part in the ruder labor 
of the farm-house. Genie’s hands were as innocent of dish- 
water and broom-handles as the finest lady’s in the land, 
and serenely ignorant physically of the manifold scrubbing, 
baking, and sweeping that kept the old homestead in such 


164 


WHO WAS SHE? 


prime order. Davie, too, was a bit of an idler, inheriting 
none of her parent’s busy thrift and manual love of hit-or- 
miss work ; but the dear butterfly was not altogether use- 
less, for she could make a bed, cake, or bouquet unexcep- 
tionably ; could feed the chickens and sprinkle the clothes 
— only Hetty was sure to grumble, when it came to the 
ironing, that they were too wet or too dry ; and was there- 
fore not in the least thankful for her gratuitous service. ; 
Added to this, she had been known to set the table several 
times quite neatly, and she possessed a wonderful genius 
for being seized with sudden fits to clean and rearrange 
closets, disembowel old chests, and explore the inmost 
recesses of dusty cupboards, rummaging and overhauling 
every nook and corner into which she could poke her little 
head ; and when everything was pulled out and in the 
utmost confusion, scattered everywhere about the floor, she 
was certain to get tired, and leave the yawning closets, 
chests, or cupboards robbed of their varied contents, pro- 
miscuously tumbled out, but very far from being method- 
ically replaced, which was ostensibly the object of their 
overhauling. Well might Hetty dread Davie’s periodical 
spasms of putting to rights, and shudder when she saw her 
emerge from unfrequented parts of the great old house 
with a smudgy nose and cobwebs drawn across her hair — 
a sure sign that she had been exploring, and that a half- 
day’s work was left behind for her to do. Hetty’s mental 
eye saw it all. The empty bottles and parcels of garden- 
seeds, the dried herbs, and rolls of patches, a package of 
choice old linen preserved for sudden cuts and bruises, a 
broken window-pane and an odd saucer, a pile of old sohool- 
books, and a multitudinous array of numberless sorts of all 
kinds of useful and useless articles that in some mysterious 
way are everlastingly accumulating in the garret and iso- 
lated crannies of a venerable old homestead. With so much 
material on hand, it did not take long for Davie to make 


WHO WAS SHE? 


165 


“ a mess,” as Hetty termed the spasmodic disentombing of 
the heterogeneous litter ; but the dear thing’s intentions 
were so good that the irascible Hetty had not the heart to 
scold her more than a minute for the dereliction of not 
carrying them out, venting her ill-nature by restoring them 
to their place with no gentle force. And, as the truth must 
be told, we are forced to admit that, with the exception of 
the occasional rummaging, the feeding of her pet bird, the 
watering of her plants, and her endless fancy-work, blithe 
Davie was not over- zealous. 

So many little graves on the hillside made Buth indul- 
gent, and the girls did pretty much as they liked. Old 
closets, canaries, and house -plants had no charms for 
Imogene. Books and music were her only refuge and 
solace. 

The slight misgivings which had troubled Mrs. Lee dur- 
ing Philip’s stay vanished with his departure ; and, though 
she liked the youth, she trembled for the influence he had 
ever exercised over Genie, and felt greatly relieved when he 
was once more travelling away from Alden ; but she was far 
from attributing her silence and quiet to his absence, con- 
sidering it merely the result of intense study and a natural 
disinclination for mirth ancf frivolous pleasure. None of 
the social gayeties of the village could entice her from her 
seclusion, and this recluse-like conduct aggravated Davie 
into a stern determination to speak her mind. She was 
excessively partial to having, in village parlance, “a good 
time,” and enjoyed the harmless festivities of country 
society with the greatest delight, and it quite exasperated 
her to have Imogene so persistently refuse on all occasions 
to accompany her. It was so disagreeable and queer to be 
always apologizing for her non-appearance. Once Olive 
Colburn had sent her a kind invitation to spend the after- 
noon with her, but Imogene had politely declined the 
honor, which half the girls in the village would have given 


WHO WAS SHE? 


166 

their eyes to obtain. And at Susie Johnson’s birthday 
party, nothing could induce her to go. Davie deemed it a 
very strong question, and firmly resolved to lecture her ■■ 
soundly ; the absurdity of her behavior must not be sane- j 
tioned, and she resolutely braced herself for the exigence } 
of forcibly expressing her disapprobation to the delinquent, 
and to that end she one day rigorously took Imogene to 
task. 

“ I declare you are completely inapproachable, Imogene. > 
You deserve a severe scolding, and I am not the one to let * 
you escape, unless you promise to go to Kate Fairchild’s 
party next week. I am ashamed to be seen always with- 
out you, and I have made up my mind that you shall 
g°” 

Genie shrugged her shoulders. “ I hate parties ; they 
are so dull. A lot of chattering boys and girls jammed H 
into a room. Nothing can supersede the tedium of a rural 
bread-and-butter party.” 

Davie’s unwonted temerity was fast deserting her, and 
she lost somewhat the positive for the more persuasive 
argument to accomplish her purpose. 

“I shall be so unhappy if you don’t go ; and I ’ll not go 
one step alone. I ’ll go nowhSre without you in the future,” 
dolefully affirmed Davie, assuming the air of a martyr 
about being led to the stake. This was more effective, and 
immediately brought Imogene to terms. 

“ I would not willingly spoil any one’s pleasure, least of 
all, yours, Sunbeam. Suppose we compromise the matter. 
If I will agree to go, will you promise not to ask nor urge 
me to dance? Nothing less will induce me to consent.” 

“ Certainly, if you make it the alternative ; but I thought 
you were fond of dancing ? ” i 

“ So I was, when I was younger.” 

“ Well I vow ! younger ! You talk like a female Methu- 
selah. Oh, you incorrigible Gypsy ! did any one ever see . 


WHO WAS SHE? 


167 


your equal? You might be the belle of Alden if you only 
bad the ambition. And don’t like to dance — well, I 
never ! ” 

Davie reached the climax of her astonishment at this 
point, and held up her hands in wonder. 

“ I don’t mind the mere motion of dancing — there is a 
certain charm in that ; but it is so disagreeable to have a 
dozen great louts of boys putting their awkward arms about 
your waist, and clawing your hands a whole evening. I 
know of nothing so wearisome.” 

“ Oh, you old maid ! worse, a self-constituted nun, far the 
former are not always to be blamed — it’s the opportunity, 
not the disposition, they lack. Get thee to a nunnery, do ; 
where even clumsy masculine arms are sighed for in vain. 
You are more nice than natural, and that is a misfortune. 
I remember you did find it so tiresome waltzing with Phil,” 
loquaciously remarked Davie, giving her a hard look. 

“ Oh, Philip was so different,” quietly rejoined Genie. 
“My baby friend and childhood champion was always 
master of a grace peculiarly his own. 1 ’ 

“ Grace, indeed! I do believe you are wearing the willow 
for him, hence your dislike of his sex in his absence. It’s 
abominable for you to slander all the young gentlemen in 
the village for his single sake. Louts, forsooth ! I ’d like 
Fred Carter to hear that ; he adores you. But to dance or 
not to dance shall be optional with you. I will be so proud 
to have you with me. You are so sparkling and bewitch- 
ing that you captivate everybody — the girls admiringly 
envious, the boys hopelessly languishing, and I vainer of 
your beauty than if it belonged to me, which I think is 
very generous of my feminine soul to admit,” laughed 
Davie. 

“Very generous and unselfish, indeed,” returned Imogene. 
“ I wish my nature were as tender toward everybody as 
yours is, Davie. It is either deep love or cold indifference 


168 


WHO WAS SHE? 


with me. I can cover but few with my mantle of affection. 
The channel is cut so deep that the current of my heart runs 
all one way, and gathers in a fathomless whirlpool of con- 
flicting hopes and doubts. Better your little meandering 
stream, that takes pleasure in the light gayeties which my 
darker soul rejects, and that shall widen out into a broad, 
peaceful lake, a perpetual blessing to all those who come 
near its quiet margin. Only beautiful things will grow 
along your stream of life, for it flows from a pure heart- 
fountain that knows sin but as a name; and mine — I 
shudder to think of mine! Strange blossoms will spring 
up, seemingly fair to the eye, but to the taste a deadly 
poison. Instead of being proud of me, you should shun 
my company. There is deceit and treachery in my nature. 
They are the poisonous flowers, and grown on the surface ] 
of a treacherous pool. I am afraid of them myself — 
afraid that some day they will separate us, Davie.” 

“ Well, I trust, if I get submerged in this faithless stream, 
or anywhere near its. perfidious brink, you will be so good 
as to keep the mythical Kelpy steed ready saddled to extri-J 
cate, or warn me of danger,” gayly replied Davie. 

Imogene suppressed a rising sigh, and said, yet more 
gravely : 

“ You don’t realize it now ; though you will. But you 
need not fear to rest under the upas ; it will never poison 
your atmosphere; it is deleterious only to myself. Oh, 
Davie! I am the torrent — a restless cascade. You a 
happy little rivulet. And when I am dashing myself to 
pieces on the rocks, unable to find the right way to stay 
my course, you will be sweetly creeping through the pleas- 
ant meadows, guileless and free from wrong, as now. Don’t 
forget me then, Davie — don't forget me ! ” 

She had never seen her so moved, and, throwing her 
arms around her,' she said, tenderly, “ Don’t believe me so 
heartless, sister mine. We are as we are — God made the 


WHO WAS SHE? 


169 


brook and the torrent, and he will direct their course. I 
am not wise, dear Genie, but I can see the wisdom of iny 
Creator.” A sage could not have uttered a nobler truth, 
and Imogene looked at her with a softer light in her eyes, 
and returned the pressure of her pretty white arms by a 
stronger clasp. Davie’s joyous temperament did not admit 
of a very protracted depression, and the smiles were soon 
playing with her dimples as merrily as before. 

“ You need never think of engulfing me in your seething, 
turbulent life-cataract, for I ’ll float like a cork, and kiss 
all the poison from your noxious night-shades. You shall 
not predict baleful fortunes. No, no, Queen Gypsy, I ’ll 
none of it. Oh, but you are very, very lovely! I wish 
Phil Shirley could see you now ; he would fall on his sword 
for very despair. No amount of flattery can spoil you. 
Upon my word, I don’t believe you know you are hand- 
some.” 

“ Yes, I do, Davie ; and I am proud of it, in a measure 
— jealous of its preservation, and love it because it makes 
others love me, and prize it as something too sacred and 
precious for common vanity, or to be flaunted about the 
streets for rude girls to stare at, and conceited men to com- 
ment on. I reserve it, as I do my best thoughts, for those 
whom I love. Every day I admire my poor face, not that I 
do so adore it, but because its beauty is dear to — to you.” 
The last rather equivocal reason was quite flattering to 
Davie, and she indefinitely postponed a further lecture, 
especially as Imogene had evinced a proper compliance 
without undue harshness on her part. 

15 


170 


WHO WAS SHE? 


CHAPTER XX. 

WAITING. 

W EEKS, months, a year dragged on. Spring, summer, 
and autumn passed, and every day the intense long- 
ing in Imogene’s eyes deepened — not morosely melancholy, 
but uneasy and preoccupied, like one awaiting some great 
event. At long intervals she managed to visit the post- 
office in a neighboring town, and the letters she received at 
stated periods, dated from the distant post in Arizona, for 
a time kept her heart from pining and her soul free from 
distrust ; but of late she missed something in his letters, so 
circumspect in composition and peculiarly dignified in tone, 
that an undefined alarm took possession of her breast, and 
the wish to see him became a continual prayer. One look 
in Philip’s face would re-establish her faith and make her 
forget the miserable doubt lying cold above her love. His 
letters were still kind, but so formal that Imogene con- 
strued their strict formality into a guarded cautiousness, 
which puzzled and pained her beyond words, and all the 
more that she could find no tangible reason for her suspi- 
cions; but, in spite of their unsatisfactory nature, she 
replied as warmly as before, determined that her jealousy, 
as he would call it, should not creep out. She would con- 
trol it thus far, and heroically smothered the unworthy 
fears so effectually that not a line betrayed that they existed ; 
but the unsatisfied void ached all the harder for the fierce 
stifling ; and although she kissed and read and reread again 
and again the words his hand had traced, there was some- 
thing lacking. She tried to find an excuse. He was a 
man — a soldier — and it was not meet that he should 
write in a love-sick schoolboy style. He was serious and 


WHO WAS SHE? 


171 


earnest now, and she ought not to expect fond endearments 
on paper ; it was foolish of her when Philip was so all her 
own, and working that she might he always with him. 
She sternly arraigned herself before the tribunal of her 
own most secret thoughts, and while condemning the innate 
desire for a warmer expression of his affection as silly, and 
not to be looked for, she actually sighed for the “fond 
endearments. ,, But his last look and kiss were with her 
yet, and they comforted even when regrets and doubts 
were uppermost in her heart. Philip had obtained the 
coveted promotion, and was coming home on furlough. 
December would bring him, then all this harrowing sus- 
pense and torturing dread would be dispelled. The old 
steady, undying love would come back as before, and 
Philip’s lips would dissipate the false coldness of his 
pen, and his smile banish the last lingering fear. There 
were to be no more cruel partings ; she was to be his before 
the world, and then — Imogene’s love finished the sweet 
thought-sentence, and waited. 


172 


WHO WAS SHE? 


CHAPTER XXL 

IN THE SHADOWS. 

D AVIE was frequently the unconscious cause of the 
most poignant pain to Imogene, everlastingly burst- 
ing in with some startling piece of news that in some way 
was sure to be related directly or indirectly with the hid- 
den secret that she took such good care to conceal. She 
was perpetually alluding in a careless, off-hand manner to 
Philip, and the old school likes and loves, and delighted 
in raking up vivid reminiscences of the past, in which he 
bore a conspicuous part, or descanting in eloquent terms on 
his recent exploits on the frontier, from whence stray bits 
of news found their way to Alden, food for tea-table gossip, 
and precious crumbs to Davie, who did not fail to hand 
her knowledge over to Imogene, highly embellished and 
enhanced by her charming naivete and sprightly manner 
of relating. This happy faculty in the vivacious young 
lady was often exquisite torture to her apathetic listener, 
who, outwardly calm, writhed under her annotations and 
infusive genius of making a little go a long way when the 
object was Philip ; and now, when every nerve was quiver- 
ing with expectation and a portentous fear that existed 
without a name, and against her will, Imogene dreaded 
nothing so much as an impromptu laudatory discourse of 
Philip and his virtues. Would the time never come when 
she could hear his name inadvertently mentioned without 
an inward trembling and shrinking, that was daily becom- 
ing more difficult to conceal and harder to bear? Gladly 
she welcomed the first snow-flakes, for they heralded his 
coming to end her patient waiting. 

“Welcome, thrice welcome,” she thought, lifting her 


WHO WAS SHE? 


173 


eyes from the ruffle she was hemming, to look out of the 
window, where the advance-guard of the feathery storm 
was softly falling on the withered grass, and idly floating 
through the naked branches of the shivering maples. 

“Such news!” cried Davie, bounding in and shaking 
the melting flakes from her mantle. “I just escaped the 
storm. There will be sleighing by to-morrow; but that’s 
no matter. Susie scolded me soundly for not bringing 
you along, but I told her you were obstinate, and totally 
disregarded my commands. Thank heaven! there is a 
person in the world whose supreme behest you willingly 
obey. I’ll pray him to exercise his magic spell, and tell 
us the secret of your dismal melancholy. It is lucky I 
went out, though, in the face of a threatening sky, else 
this blessed news would have been 'ignorance for the next 
twelve hours at least. Now, w T ho do you suppose is in 
town ! ” 

Imogene’s head grew strangely dizzy ; a sickening fear 
crept coldly around her thick-beating heart, and, bending 
lower over her sewing, she replied, in evenly measured 
accents, “ I am sure I cannot guess.” 

“ Why, Philip Shirley. Captain Shirley, of the United 
States Cavalry, came yesterday, and called on the Colburns 
the moment of his arrival. He is grateful yet, anyway ; 
and making love to Olive, they say, in return for her 
father’s kindness. There is self-sacrifice for you, with a 
vengeance ; and all for sweet gratitude’s sake. Pray, don’t 
stitch your curls in your hem,” recommended Davie ; add- 
ing, somewhat pettishly, “ Well, why don’t you say some- 
thing?” 

“ I am glad Philip is home, of course ; but I don’t see 
the necessity of going into raptures on account of his 
return,” she rejoined, evenly as before, a slight tremor in 
the hand guiding the needle deftly in and out the fine cam- 
bric as methodical as if her stony eyes regulated the stitches. 

15 * 


174 


WHO WAS SHE? 


It was merely mechanical, for she was unconscious of either 
feeling or motion. Lower and lower drooped the black 
ringlets, concealing the rapidly flitting hue of her cheeks, 
and the perceptible blanching of the tight-shut lips. Davie, 
if the most voluble, was the least observing mortal in this 
■world. So innocent and open in her own nature that she 
had no suspicions of others, and little suspecting the mighty 
effort Genie was making to retain her color and voice, she was 
quite offended that she should receive the important infor- 
mation of Philip’s return in such a provokingly quiet way, 
when she had been bursting with impatience to impart the 
startling news all the afternoon ; in fact, she had cut her 
visit short, pretending that the impending storm compelled 
her to an early departure, for the sole purpose of letting 
Imogene know that Phil was once more at home ; and her 
extreme serenity was too much for even Davie’s good 
temper. 

“You are a complete misanthropist, that you are, Imo- 
gene. I don’t believe a visit from the man in the moon 
would arouse your apathy or excite your curiosity ! ” and 
with this final decision she whisked off, mentally vowing 
that when she bothered herself again to tell her anything 
she would know it — that’s all. 

The bloodless face of Imogene, raised the moment she 
was alone, would have caused her to change her mind 
regarding the interest she took in the news she had been so 
eager to impart. It was actually livid, ashy-looking, like 
the features of the dead, framed in a cloud of black hair, 
and lighted by two fixed, burning eyes, the parted lips pale 
to ghastliness. She put her hand to her brow in a bewil- 
dered way, looking utterly helpless, vacantly staring, and 
cowering before some horrible terror that rose up a giant 
of despair in her bosom, and left her abjectly crawling at 
the feet of the dread phantom that had so long haunted 
her peace. She knew its name now ; knew that she was 


WHO WAS SHE? 


175 


deserted ; knew that she was not first in his thoughts ; that 
she was forever out of Philip Shirley’s life, and conse- 
quently forever fated to grope in the shadows her faith in 
him had thrown about her path. 

“ Came yesterday ! ” the hollow voice sounded far away. 
“ Came yesterday, and he goes to Olive Colburn for a first 
greeting. I am left to — to — oh, Philip, Philip!” She 
gazed blankly at the now fast-falling snow, and the wicked 
wish formed into words, “ Oh, to be under it, so deep that 
his footsteps above her head were powerless to disturb her 
repose ! ” 

Time had been when she would have staked her life on 
his coming, despite the storm ; but now she did not look 
for him. The thought did not once enter her mind, and 
she went up stairs like one walking in a troubled dream, 
and all that wretched night she lay staring at the darkness, 
without a friend or counsellor in the world to help her bear 
the burden pressing heavily on her young soul. From the 
beginning Imogene had conceived a wrong idea regarding 
her duty toward Mrs. Lee. Ruth was in every respect a 
mother to her, but she had never given her the smallest 
share of confidence. From the first, Philip had usurped 
the tenderest impulses and the entire frankness of her 
being. Under his guidance her whole life was tinged by a 
false coloring, which destroyed her faith and blinded her 
reliance on every one else. She had been so accustomed to 
obeying and looking up to him as something superior to 
common humanity, that it became a second nature to rev- 
erence his simplest request, and abide by his decision, with- 
out a thought or wish of doing anything contrary to his 
desire. She had loved him so long and ardently, and had 
shut the secret in her heart so closely, that now, at his 
premeditated neglect, it gnawed into her soul. The bitter 
truth seemed written everywhere in letters of fire, and 
Ruth’s kind eyes upbraidingly reproved her for the deep 


176 


WHO WAS SHE? 


duplicity she had practised on her confidence and charity. 
Double deceit and treachery, too late she saw it, and 
remorse came to add a new anguish to her already misery- 
torn heart. 

And where was Philip ? In Lot Colburn’s elegant par- 
lor, smiling beside the sofa of his gray -eyed daughter, and 
humorously discoursing of life on the plains. Lame Olive 
listened, with her hand in his, and her shy, white face 
seraphically pure in the soft lamplight. The stoical soldier 
did not notice the timid trembling of her hand, or the faint 
blush she gave him in reward for his spirited narration, 
not one word of which was more than a sound to him. Her 
little love was too weak a thing for Philip Shirley to under- 
stand, but to her it was a whole heaven of delight. She 
found her Eden in his presence, and though she was sim- 
ple, lame, and sickly, little Olive liked to lie there on her 
cushions and love him , though he might never know or care 
for her unasked affection. Had Philip forgotten Imogene ? 
Forgotten her! It was her memory that had so corrugated 
his young brow and settled the fixed sternness about his 
firm mouth — her memory, and the wrong he contemplated 
against her, that had laid the frowning wrinkle between 
his eyes, and deepened the austerity of his solid features to 
almost habitual harshness. How different from the boy 
lieutenant’s was this captain’s strong face, with the coarse 
moustache of crisp blackness, shading a lip that shut hard 
over white, even teeth, and met a severe chin in its down- 
ward droop. 

Where had the boy- fun and frolic gone? What had 
dried up his sparkling spirits and faded his happy smile ? 
It was hard to recognize Philip Shirley in this sadly altered, 
grim-visaged man, indifferently toying with Olive Colburn’s 
thin hand. He had taken it, but he scarcely remembered 
that he retained it, so engrossed was he with his own reflec- 
tions. He had come to Alden with a purpose, and it was 


WHO WAS SHE? 


177 


as fixed as his native hills. Ambition had drunk every 
other fountain dry. He had resolved to be great. A 
woman’s love would hamper and retard his advancement. 
He must be free, and his progress untrammelled by the 
promises he had insanely made to Imogene. A soldier had 
no right to a wife. The wild frontier was no place for 
domestic affection, and a young officer, pitching his tent 
anywhere, ought not to think of marriage, and, after his 
rough experience, it would be unjust for him to drag a 
woman from her home and friends and expose her to the 
peril and hardships of life in a tent or ruder barracks. 
No, no ; he could not think of a wife, especially a wife of 
no birth. Imogene was beautiful, and he loved her. He 
did not attempt to deny that she was yet dear to him ; but 
she had no name, and he would not link himself to possible 
disgrace for the sake of obeying his heart. Love must be 
subservient to honor. Who was this girl whom he had 
madly loved past anything on earth ? What her parent- 
age? Where was she born? His conscience whispered, 
“ Be true to your promise, let it be as it may ; she is inno- 
cent, and the greater dishonor is in your base desertion.” 

Out under the stars, and Olive might never have existed 
for all the thought he gave her ; but she smiled and kissed 
the hand he had held, and limped away to her chamber, 
loving the stout little captain a deal better than he deserved. 

Philip, as has been seen, was devoted to his profession, 
and acknowledged no mistress save his sword ; but, not- 
withstanding, he paused in his hurried walk, and looked 
at the Lee homestead, a kinder expression in his eyes, and 
an audible sigh on his lips. He shivered, but not with 
cold, and clenched his hand in muttered wrath beneath his 
heavy military cloak. The gaunt lilacs nodded mockingly 
at him, and seemed to point their bare branches derisively 
in his direction. The wind came freighted with a voice — 
her voice — calling to him from the dark old house, and 


178 


WHO WAS SHE? 


the chilling gusts swept down from the church-yard, bear- 
ing Elinor’s soft accents above the roar. He stood a cul- 
prit before the visions of his guilty conscience, and the 
smothered cry of repentance the imaginary spectres called 
forth ended in a grating oath. He turned boldly on the 
old house, as if it were sensible of his defiant gaze, and 
hissed through his shut teeth, “ By heavens, Imogene, you* 
will not suffer alone ! I could tear out my heart that it 
deserts you, but I will be great, if the way be strewn with 
death, and the murder of my own love crimson in my 
path.” The wind howled anew, and whirled a dead leaf 
against his face. It felt like the touch of a woman’s hand, 
and rustled like the soft motion of a woman’s garments. He 
started, and cursed the wind, while he trampled on the 
gray leaf. 

There is something lonesome in standing without a 
dwelling at midnight, when all is dark and still, the win- 
dows solid blackness, and the whole dreary aspect of 
roof and gables and chimneys, sharp angular deformities, 
thrust out in the gloom, to scare us into a greater state of 
nervousness, when we know a household is quietly slum- 
bering within, and only ourself keeping vigil. This was 
doubly the case with Philip, who harbored an evil purpose 
against one inmate of the silent farm-house, which did not 
add to his comfort of mind, or serve to cheer the dismal 
appearance of her home viewed at the ghostly hour of 
twelve of a bleak winter’s night. He could not endure 
the oppressive scene, and precipitately fled, followed by the 
guilty sense of a preconcerted injustice that was to ruin 
the young life of Imogene Yale. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


179 


CHAPTER XXII. 


MISS VALE. 



CHEERLESS day dawned dismally over the snowy 


-Ya. earth, and Imogene arose to meet it, proud, still, and 
despairing, like one who had nerved herself to know and 
endure the worst. Yet the impatient rap that at early 
evening sounded on the outer door made her soul fairly 
quake, and scared the blood from her face as rapidly as if 
Death had laid his touch upon her sinking heart. Well 
she knew who stood without, but she did not rise. Philip 
two days in Alden, and not come to see her! It pre- 
saged evil, and she had schooled herself for the ordeal of 
meeting him with the unpardonable slight, a mountain of 
injured love and aroused pride, between them. 

Davie ejaculated, “ Philip, upon my word ! ” and flew to 
admit him, demurely ushering the haughty little officer 
into the parlor with as much ceremony as if he were a full- 
fledged major-general and the hero of twenty battles. The 
heavy countenance he turned toward her in grim welcome 
chilled the glad glow burning in her own, and, excusing 
herself for a moment, she ran back to beg Imogene’s aid in 
entertaining the grim captain. 

“ I came for you Genie ; it ’s Phil, but I never was so 
disappointed. You will hardly know him. Come along, 
and we will overpower him by force of numbers.” 

“ Did he ask for me ? ” Imogene’s voice, though sweet 
! and low, seemed to come from some sepulchral place, and 
I startled Davie into giving her a curious look. She met 
|the blue eyes without a falter, and, forgetting her surprise, 
i the other went on rather deprecatingly : 


“No; he did not ask for you. I suppose he expected 


180 


WHO WAS SHE? 


to see you with me, as a matter of course, and did not think 
it necessary. He is awful stiff, and sits like a ramrod, on 
the extreme edge of the sofa, gnawing the most ferocious 
moustache that ever disfigured the lip of mortal man. His 
aspect is quite savage, foreign to anything we ever knew in ' 
our Phil. Why, he tried to awe me with his frigid state- 
liness, and I am not sure but what he succeeded, for I was 
never so glad to get away from any one in my life. There 
is one comfort left, at least : we can be as severely polite as 
he, and freeze as solid on short notice. Let us be revenged, 
and astound him by our supercilious manners. Be your 
haughtiest, and I will play second. You are incomparable 
when it comes to the grandly icy airs, and I long to see the 
conceit taken out of him. The pitiable notice of poor 
Olive Colburn has completely turned his head. Do come, 
Genie ; a look from you will take him off his guard, for it ’s 
all assumed and superficial, I am certain of that,” cried 
Davie, trembling with eagerness to see Philip annihilated 
by the prouder spirit of Imogene. 

There was an ominous glitter in the black eyes when she 
calmly arose to comply. 

“ If Captain Shirley desires a formal reception from his 
old friends, I will not be so ungracious as to deny it. If he j 
thinks to humiliate me by his studied neglect and feigned 
asperity, I ’ll show him his mistake.” 

She shook back her hair, casting a single swift look at j 
her matchless face in the glass as she passed. It was never ! 
in better beauty ; the tremor, and pallor, and anguish was I 
out of it ; the proud heart alone ruled the splendid eyes ; 
nothing like love was there ; her only thought was to resent 
the insult she knew he had purposely put upon her. Davie 
considered it capital acting, and softly applauded, greatly 
enjoying the anticipated fun of Philip encountering her 
cold, firm look, one colder and firmer than she had ever I 
seen before. Heedless of her muj-mured admiration, Imo- i 


WHO WAS SHE? 


181 


gene entered the parlor, and, bowing low before the agitated 
officer, said in steadiest accents : 

“If Captain Shirley will accept our poor congratula- 
tions, we gladly welcome him home again.” 

Philip started as if that quiet lady-voice had been a 
blow. Her manner was easy, collected, and dignified; 
nothing more. No covert resentment, no disguised bitter- 
ness — simply indifferent. It stung him deeply, but he 
managed to conceal his feelings and offer his hand. She 
gave him the tips of her quickly withdrawn fingers, and 
waited for him to speak. 

“Miss Vale’s welcome I prize next to none in the world. 
I think she must know it.” 

Imogene again bowed in acknowledgment of the implied 
compliment, but her look was scornful. 

" Indeed, I see Captain Shirley has not forgotten how to 
flatter.” Her cold, skeptical smile made him extremely 
uncomfortable. She had forestalled him, and, instead of 
tears and reproaches, greeted him in haughty disdain, and 
a frigidness ten times greater than his own. He had meant 
to be politely constrained at first, and gradually thaw into 
argumentative confidence after the first chill on his part 
was over. Philip had laid his plans without a thought or 
provision for Imogene’s non-acquiescence, and her sudden 
change of tactics baffled and surprised him. Davie found 
it convenient to leave the parlor, shrewdly divining that 
she was one too many when people were so very circum- 
spect after being the best and most inseparable friends, and 
the two were alone — Philip sitting ill at ease on the sofa, 
and Imogene leaning carelessly against the piano, the 
room between them. Neither spoke for several minutes, 
but her eyes went straight to his in a long, searching, ques- 
tioning gaze. 

“ Imogene ! ” he was by her side, and holding out his 
hands. 

16 


182 


WHO WAS SHE? 


“What is it, sir?” She still retained the hardness of 
tone and expression, regarding him almost sternly, without 
noticing his outstretched hand. 

“I do not seek to justify what you doubtless term, and 
rightly, my reprehensible conduct, but I would — ” 

“ Pray do not defend yourself until you have been ac- 
cused,” she interrupted, freezingly. He had never called 
her Imogene before, and it rankled deeper than his coldly 
enunciated “Miss Yale.” “Or do I see verified in you the 
trite adage, ‘ That a guilty conscience needs no accusing/ 
No excuse is necessary, sir. The rumored stories of your 
grateful devotion to Miss Colburn is sufficient explanation 
in conjunction with your marked avoidance of myself. I 
desire no other answer, and, as a lady whom you have pur- 
posedly shunned, I can ask none.” 

“ I know your moods too well to believe your heart is in 
your words. It is your pride speaking. It shall have its 
way ; then I will appeal to the love I know lies beneath. You 
can’t cheat me by so poor a semblance of scornful indiffer- 
ence. This is a sad meeting for our hopeful parting.” 

“ And whose fault is it ? ” she turned on him sharply. 

“ Mine, Imogene ; my fault alone — yet I had reasons.” 

“ Reasons, indeed ; most laudable, no doubt, and worthy 
of Philip Shirley.” 

“ Oh, the old bitterness ! ” he said, with a sigh. “ The 
old, sneering, bitter spirit in full power; but ’t is justly 
aroused this time, though not as regards Olive Colburn. 
She to steal in my heart to your casting out ! Why, Genie, 
your shadow is dearer than a score of pale Olives. If idle 
gossip has been busy with her name in connection with 
mine, do not believe it, for the tale is utterly false. Olive 
cares not a pin for me, nor I for her, save as a passing 
friend.” 

He gave her a frank, half-smiling look, that reminded 
her of the past. The mist which unbidden dimmed the 


WHO WAS SHE? 


183 


firm black eyes softened the flashing anger in Imogene’s. 
Love him ? She could have fallen at his feet, and kissed 
the very dust beneath them, yet, strange anomaly, she 
answered coldly, without a sign of tenderness : 

“Since I am forgotten, what matters the cause? why 
refer to the past or allude to the parting, which you colored 
with promises so seeming fair, that I, poor fool, lived and 
believed in them only ? This wretched meeting is of your 
own making. I am hurt to the heart, I admit ; but you 
shall not remember me as one who had not the womanli- 
ness to resent the outrage you have wilfully planned and 
carried out toward me. As to Olive, I simply pity her. 
I fear no rival ; I demean myself by the word.” 

She impatiently drew away from him, her beautiful face 
angrily animated, and the brilliant black eyes bright and 
tearless. 

“You are splendidly handsome in your wrath, as you are 
sweetly gentle and confiding in your love. You see I am 
not to be intimidated by your beautiful fury, for I have 
seen you in hot tempers before, and your lofty scorn goes 
for nothing.” 

This was too provoking, and Imogene fairly trembled 
with rage. His self-confident manner, though perfectly 
natural and every bit like the commanding and exhorting 
Phil of her tvhole life- worship, was not to be endured now, 
and she retorted, in suppressed anger : 

“ Dare you mock me with your contemptible allusions 
to the love which was too high, complete, and pure for a 
creature like you to win or understand.” 

“ But I did win it, I do possess it, and understand it so 
thoroughly that I know your heart is, like my own, crying 
out against this miserable farce we are acting. I don’t 
mock you, neither do I wish to stab deeper the breast 
which I have already cruelly wounded. I am guilty, but 
not of loving any other woman better than you, Genie. I 


184 


WHO WAS SHE? 


will explain, but not now — not here. I must see you 
alone, and where there will be no danger of an interrup- 
tion. Meet me on the rock near the hickory-tree this even- 
ing at seven, and I ’ll tell you the truth — everything — 
then blame me, if you will.” 

“ A clandestine meeting after dark ! Does Captain 
Shirley seek to compromise me? ” she asked, in withering 
doubt. 

“ Imogene, I have carried you in my arms a baby, and 
love you a cursed sight better than I do my soul ; and you 
shall not, by look or word, nay, by so much as a thought, 
fear to trust life, honor, or reputation to me. I am a gentle- 
man, by heavens ! and you shall not intimate the contrary. 
Will you meet me on the rock to-night at seven ? ” 

The request was more like a command. She did not 
answer, and he sternly continued : 

“ You are shrewd enough to avoid suspicion, and frame 
an excuse, for once.” 

Her lips curled in wordless disdain. 

“ I have already lost my own self-respect in practising 
cowardly subterfuges on those who love and trust me. At 
your bidding I have stooped to vile evasions, and readily 
acted falsehoods at your supreme behest. I presume~an- 
other lie will not matter, since you are a gentleman, and 
desire it.” 

“Your sarcasm is irritating.” 

“ I will be there ; you will excuse me for the present. 
Shall I send Miss Lee to you?” broke in Imogene, going 
to the door. 

“No. What do I want of Miss Lee? Do you mean to 
drive me mad? At this moment I could both kiss and 
strike you,” grated Philip through his shut teeth. 

“ Allow me to suggest that it would be neither brave nor 
prudent for you to indulge your soldierly as well as lover- 
like propensities in Mr. Lee’s parlor.” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


185 


She bowed derisively, and appeared to enjoy the intense 
pain of his strongly agitated features. 

“Give my adieus to Miss Lee; and don’t be too harsh, 
Genie,” he whispered, the last close to her cheek, and 
dashed from the house, swaying along like a drunken man. 
He had meant it all to be so different — had meant to kiss 
away her tears and reproaches, and argue her into seeing 
things as he did, and accepting his views as right, and all 
others as wrong. Instead of a weeping girl, he met a stern, 
proud woman, beautiful, strong, and not to be readily ap- 
peased, who could obey as a first, but rebelled as a second 
in his love. 

Imogene’s hands fell from the door-latch, and, clasped to- 
gether, dropped lifeless before her, vacantly staring at the 
spot where he had stood, as if he had vanished through the 
floor. 

“ Fond heart, you may break, but you shall never bend ; 
the haughty spirit that broke my mother’s shall now save 
mine. I ’ll not perish for any man’s desertion, though he 
be Philip Shirley, and — and — ” she paused abruptly, and 
left the room. Meeting Davie, she said : 

“ Philip left his adieus for you, and the next time he 
calls keep him all to yourself, for his dignity is beyond my 
comprehension.” 

“ Was my lord prince Shirley so gracious as to remember 
simple me in your royal presence? I am most humbly 
grateful. You two were so prodigiously formal that I ran 
away, thinking perhaps you might thaw if left alone. Did 
you succeed in unbending the vain little wretch, or is he 
past redemption ? ” quizzed Davie. 

“ Past everything, as far as I am concerned,” placidly 
replied Imogene, quietly taking up her sewing. 

And so ended the sanguinely anticipated meeting of two 
years before. How different that bright picture from the 
sad reality of this ! Boyhood’s bright fancies were over, 
16 * 


186 


WHO WAS SHE? 


girlhood’s dear vision vanished, hope exiled, and love 
silenced. Imogene’s heart hardened at the change, and 
Philip repented his rashness, yet stubbornly determined to 
bend her to his will. 

He knew his power, and how easy it was for him to recall 
his angry subject. The heart of the child was the heart of 
the woman, and it was his, had always been his, to hurt or 
comfort as he pleased, and the mere uttering of her name in 
the kind old way would bring her sobbing to his arms. An 
hour with him alone, and she would be the sparkling Gypsy 
he remembered so well, and not the cold, scornful Lady 
Imogene of their last interview. He little dreamed that his 
power was on the wane, and that voice and smile and touch 
would soon be unable to re-establish her insulted love. The 
dark abyss was just before him, and, although he stood on 
its dangerous verge, he did not see the fathomless gulf yawn- 
ing at his heedless feet. He said a word too much, and his 
life’s happiness retreated beyond his grasp. He tried her 
heart once too often, and she took it back to her bosom in 
disdain that it had so long been the slave of Philip Shirley. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


187 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

PHILIP EXPLAINS HIMSELF. 

T HE wind howled dismally through the trees and swept 
freezingly down from the bleak barren hills to sob a 
moment in the more protected valleys before shrieking up 
the dreary mountain-side, miles and miles away, as Imogene 
hurried to the tryst. A feeble moon shed a pale light over 
the snowy earth, leaving lonesome-looking dark spots along 
the fences and at the base of the grim old rock. Philip 
was there, impatiently striding up and down under the 
gaunt limbs of the- great hickory, as restless, obstinate, 
and discontented a being as ever quarrelled with his own 
stubbornness, or wrestled with a sin which he hated, yet 
excused, and was prepared to defend. It was cold, very 
cold, but the blood in Imogene’s veins was boiling. She 
felt it throbbing hot to cheek and brow, and almost suffo- 
cating her quick-beating heart. The warm worsted hood 
she wore oppressed her heated brain, and she tore it off, 
crushing it between her trembling hands as if the pretty 
crimson thing — the latest delight of Davie’s deft fingers 
— had deeply injured her. Notwithstanding the young 
officer was looking for her, she came upon him unawares, 
the soughing of the wind deadening her light footfalls. 
Without a word she stopped before him, and, as she had 
done all her life, waited to know his will. 

“ Put on your hood,” he said, anxious for her health ; “ I 
fear you will take cold.” 

“ Cold,” she repeated, bitterly ; “ I wish I were so cold 
that no earthly heat could ever warm me.” 

“ Hush ; this is madness ! ” 

“ No ; this is sanity. The other was madness.” 


188 


WHO WAS SHE? 


He turned away from her flashing eyes, and when he 
looked again she was standing in the same attitude, but 
her face so strangely altered that he hardly knew it, pale 
and expressionless like that of a statue; the black hair 
pushed back, and the white brow, half in shade, half in 
the light of the sickly moon, left the set features smooth 
and marble-looking, like a dead woman’s. It alarmed the 
bronze-faced soldier into a hasty gesture and exclamation. 

“ For heaven’s sake, don’t look so, Imogene ! Let me 
explain. Let me show you our error. You must not con- 
demn me unheard.” 

She never stirred a muscle, gazing straight at the lot 
where the buckwheat had bloomed, filling all the air with 
perfume, that summer day so long ago. The hand partly 
holding, partly grasping the mantle across her breast, kept 
its exact position, not an eyelash moved, the dark, shining 
eyes seemed to grow brighter and larger, and he thought 
her partially averted face appeared sharper and more dis- 
tinct as its fixedness became .more rigid and protracted. 
He could not bear it, and opened his arms. “Come, 
Gypsy!” 

Her head slowly turned in following his voice as we 
have seen the head of a dying horse respond to the caress- 
ing tones of his master. The familiar name struck the 
tender chord, a stifled scream broke involuntarily from the 
poor, ashy lips, and she fell into his arms helpless as an 
infant. He saw the large, dark eyes slowly closing, and 
felt how weakly the small white hands crumpled against 
his breast, trying, in the loving child-way, to clasp them 
about his neck ; but they were powerless to reach the 
prompting of her heart, and instead were almost crushed 
in his strong, nervous grasp. Philip’s tears and passionate 
kisses were on her brow, she was close to his broad bosom 
once more, his breath on her lips, and the one beautiful 
and perfect love of his rough, boisterous boyhood warm at 


WHO WAS SHE? 


189 


his heart. Imogene did not think it so hard to die, and 
almost wished that her soul might find its wings and flutter 
away to the cold, star-gemmed heavens while his heart was 
pulsing against her cheek. Philip had yielded, but not' 
repented of his firm resolve to break away from the love 
which conquered him, even while he strove to neglect and 
banish it, as something that would chain him to a morbid 
fear, the source of which was Imogene’s questionable birth. 
He had thought of it a great deal, and in imagination 
depicted the humiliation of hearing dark hints assailing 
his name through a nameless wife. He would never marry, 
but from the lofty height which he meant to gain he would 
look down on the jarring masses, and congratulate himself 
on his freedom, consoled by the knowledge that in all the 
world there was but one woman, and, despite the outward 
seeming that he had tasted of affection deeper than most 
men receive from women, he would always love her — ah ! 
always dearly, truly, and completely — be hers in every- 
thing but giving her his name. So argued the pliable 
sophistry of ambitious youth, and no doubt Philip believed 
in the wisdom of his reasoning, and thought himself a 
model of consistency at the time. Building on his old 
influence, he meant to persuade her into his way of think- 
ing, and in a logical manner impress her with a proper 
sense of how embarrassing it was for a young officer to be 
followed about in camp and field by a wife. He had seen 
it in a few cases, and it sickened him of ever dragging a 
woman around eternally with him. Life on the plains 
was not refining for men, and it hardened women in the 
same degree. He would explain it clearly to Imogene. 
She had always deferred to his judgment, and he was sure 
she would in this. Only it was a little more delicate, the 
rejecting of her hand and love, than anything he had ever 
attempted before. At all events, she must know the truth, 
and to that end he solemnly said : 


100 


WHO WAS SHE? 


“As God sees us this moment, Gypsy, I love you better 
than anything else under heaven ; but, in the face of this 
assertion, I am going to ask you to forget all that took 
place two years ago.” 

“ What, all the promises, the sacred vow that neither 
you nor I can — ” 

“Yes, everything; they w T ere rash promises, idle vows. 
It were wiser to forget, or remember them as childish and 
impracticable,” he hastily interrupted, pulling at his mous- 
tache in dire perplexity, for he did not like the expression 
of the two wild, affrighted eyes staring at him in appalled 
wonder. 

“And how have I displeased you, Philip?” She with- 
drew from his supporting arm, and stood very still and 
calm beside him. 

“ In no way, but I want my freedom ; you have it, and 
I came to ask it at your hands. The world is ignorant ; 
let it remain so. There must be no secret shackles of this 
annoying kind to impede my progress. It irritates and 
makes a very devil of me.” He stamped his foot and 
frowned, walking about and returning with another stamp 
and frown. She regarded him sorrowfully : 

“ Why should thfe poor tie that binds us so fret and 
anger you, Philip? Was it of my making? Can I undo 
it?” 

“ You can be silent. We were mere children, and neither 
of us are answerable for the past. Ignore it, Imogene, as 
I do ; for I cannot fulfil the blind promise which, kept, 
ruins all that I am striving to obtain.” 

“ Ignore it ! ” she echoed, interlacing her tremulous 
fingers. “ I don’t understand you. I have lost my Philip 
in this hard, pitiless man, who comes here to break my 
heart that it is faithful, and will not recant ; that, too, in 
the very spot where we played as children, and wished 
away the years that should give us to each other. Oh, 


WHO WAS SHE? 


191 


Philip, it hurts me to hear you call the love which you 
gave me the right to confess the folly of children, for it is 
more, the worship of your soul and of mine, and will stand 
first in our hearts until they are incapable of mortal 
affection.” 

“ Nevertheless it was an egregious error, innocently com- 
mitted I know, without comprehending the misery it might 
entail on our future ; and all we can do now is to expunge 
it as speedily as best we may. I ’m too poor, I can’t sup- 
port a wife, especially one like you, educated, refined, and 
accustomed to ease and comfort. The uncouth, illy-dressed, 
and uncultivated women of the frontier would disgust you 
in a week, as they did me. My beggarly pay hardly keeps 
me from being threadbare. I have no home — no money 
— and preferment yet to win. How can I make good what 
would naturally have been the result of our last — ” 

“Oh, don’t speak of that; nor sneer at our trusting 
youth ; our real sin commences here ! ” Her attitude and 
voice were pleading ; the wistful eyes earnest with a new 
and sudden entreaty. She would not let his love slip away ; 
would not let the evil tempter triumph without a struggle 
to maintain her hold upon his heart. She did not fear to 
enter the lists with the foul fiend himself, when the object 
was Philip Shirley’s wavering love, and clung to the last 
desperate hope of disabusing his mind of its new, unnat- 
ural wandering, with a woman’s frantic beseeching. “ Oh, 
Philip, I can’t forget, I can’t school myself to your false 
way of reasoning ! Don’t give me up ; in Christ’s name, 
do not. It will kill me! I have loved you so long — have 
trusted you so fully — have obeyed and believed you so 
implicitly, that this wretched ending I cannot bear ! Be 
merciful, Philip; dismiss these arrant, unworthy thoughts, 
and keep with me our holy vows.” She fell on her knees, 
this proud, beautiful Imogene, and lifted her clasped hands 
imploringly, the wild supplicating face white with agony, 


192 


WHO WAS SHE? 


humbly begging from the cold snow at his feet the return 
of his recreant love. 

The stout soldier shivered, and well he might, for his 
inward soul worshipped the splendid creature .praying him. 
to be true to himself and her. 

“You unman me,” he said, attempting to raise her. “I 
feel myself a demon in temper, and a poor devil incapable 
of taking care of you, should I listen to your entreaty.” 

“ Oh, don’t let the pitiful plea of money separate us ! 
I will wait ; wait years — all my life — until prosperity 
comes. We will work for it — yes, work, hope, and wait 
for it — if you will give me the old love for my courage 
and faith. I don’t care for poverty, hardship, or danger, 
Philip. I ’ll bravely face them all — anything but our 
eternal separation.” 

Rendered half frantic by her tender pleadings, Philip 
forgot himself, and uttered the fatal words that shut 
against him the affections of the woman whose love filled 
his heart, and the long agony of regretful years began. 
He had meant to spare her the great and potent reason 
of his resolve ; but in the face of her prayers he felt it to 
be the only silencing objection in his power to offer, and 
arousing her pride, she would be her haughty self, and 
leave him free to act as he might choose. Not venturing 
to meet her gaze, he said, a sort of dogged determination 
in his manner : 

“ There are other considerations beside poverty and hard- 
ship, which you seem to have entirely overlooked. My 
wife must have a name, her parentage must be above 
questioning, her social position unblemished, and free from 
doubt.” 

A moment after, he would have given his right arm to 
recall the cruel words ; but it was too late. The bittei 
taunt went straight to her heart. 

“ Say that again” she whispered, a ghastly smile on her 


WHO WAS SHE? 193 

lips, and a terrible shadow in her eyes, that made him 
shudder to behold. 

“I do not wish to pain you ; but I repeat that the woman 
I call wife, however humble her lineage, must be above 
reproach. You have forced the truth from me, and that it 
wounds I am heartily sorry, for you are innocent, God 
knows ; but that fact will not satisfy the world, nor the 
doubt in my own breast.” 

Imogene recoiled a step backward, and her laugh, bitterer 
than ten thousand curses, echoed through the stillness. 
She began to speak mockingly, but lost it in a vehement 
outburst of subdued passion, terrible to see and hear in one 
so young. 

“And so, brave Shirley, your wife must have a name; 
and you dare stand there, you vain, conceited upstart, and 
utter this to me. Who am I, sir? more than your equal, for 
I have kept the faith that your worldly heart has delib- 
erately broken. You talk of honor with a lie in your throat ; 
you prate of family distinction, and your father a ragged, 
illiterate farmer. Think you I pay homage to the captain’s 
sword dragging at your egotistical heels? I have loved 
you better than my Maker — better than the dead, whom 
you insult — I confess it; but not because I thought the time 
would come when you might strut in a colonel’s coat. I ’ve 
been a fool — stupidly blind. I must have time to think. 
Meet me here to-morrow at this hour.” 

A flowing, black dress, and a white, haggard face fled 
past him, and Imogene was gone. 

Philip sullenly regarded the spot where she had stood, 
looking the picture of one who had made a great and 
irredeemable mistake. “ I thought I knew her,” he mut- 
tered, “ but I never did. How could I, when I don’t know 
myself? Am I always to be self-tormented in this cursed 
manner? I think Elinor Vale must be stirring in her 
grave at my base treason to her child. * Be kind to Genie.’ 

17 


194 


WHO WAS SHE? 


I wish to heaven I could forget it! She has been dead 
these years, but I vividly remember her look and voice, 
and just the way her head lay against the cushion of her 
chair when she asked me to always love her little girl. 
Well, I always have loved her; she can't upbraid me there, 
selfish as I have proved myself." He clenched his hand, 
and strode to and fro like a caged animal, but he never 
faltered in his mad purpose of renouncing Imogene ; and as 
he walked about, enraged at himself and hating the part 
he was acting, he looked like some malicious fiend bent on 
death and destruction to himself and everybody else. The 
short, heavy figure seemed a deformed monstrosity, malig- 
nantly cursing the life that he was sacrificing more than 
life to exalt. His features looked old and hard ; the deep- 
set, gleaming eyes fierce with self-engendered passion. The 
gray dawn found him still there, and the snow beneath the 
hickory trodden into deep defacement by his quick, angry 
footsteps. 

And what of Imogene? The girl fled home like a 
frightened deer, never pausing until she bounded into the 
presence of startled Davie, breathless, white, and trembling. 

“Ah, how strange you look ! — where have you been, and 
what is the matter ? ” were the rapidly uttered questions of 
the wondering Miss Davie. 

“ Out, making calls ; been everywhere, from heaven to 
hades. I was frightened at the lateness of this wind-swept 
night, and ran ; that 's all.” 

“ You are in a singularly gay mood, I must say, and 
looking like a mad ghost,” said Davie, regarding her 
attentively. 

“ Am I ? ” A nervous little laugh and shrug accom- 
panied the words, steadily meeting the puzzled blue eyes, 
her own more black and bright than ever. 

“ Well, if you were afraid, why did n't you ask my com- 
pany ? ” said Vida, somewhat reproachfully. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


195 


“ Because I fancied a run alone. Don’t stare, I ’m not 
a lunatic, though I suspect there is a mild species of lunacy 
in my queer nature. But never mind ; half the world is 
mad, and the rest imbeciles. Come, let us have a song. I 
can sing to-night. Music is refined madness, and love a 
universally believed-in raving of the heart.” 

She dashed at the piano like a maniac, proving that at the 
moment love and music were with her indeed madness. 

“ Goodness knows, you quite astound me ! ” remonstrated 
Davie. “For mercy sake, save the keys! It is splendid 
though, if it does smack of Bedlam,” she added, after a 
moment’s rapt listening. 

“ It is a passion, like me. Did I not once tell you that I 
was a wild, restless torrent ? Here it is. Hark ! how it 
dashes among the rocks ; roaring now through dark, dismal 
gorges, groaning in lonesome caverns, toying with the pure 
pretty rivulet ; that ’s you, Davie ; here' is the tempest, the 
furious storm-cloud bursting with fierce, deadly lightnings, 
the crashing thunder, the last vivid blaze of mortal agony ; 
now come the moans, and shrieks, and tears, followed by 
remorse, despair, and death ! Do you hear ? Do you com- 
prehend that all these grand combinations of fearful semi- 
nals are in the soul of Imogene Vale?” 

The instrument, faithful to her marvellous touch, gave 
forth a flood of sound corresponding with the words of the 
dangerously but gloriously gifted girl. The rapid changes 
bewildered and frightened Davie. 

“Are you crazy?” she gasped. “You play as if some 
evil spirit possessed you ! ” 

“ No ; I am only intoxicated with my own power. This 
genius ought to win a name, and it shall make me famous. 
A motion of my hand, and I fascinate, charm, or scare. 
Now listen, and I ’ll sing you the song of the nameless, im- 
provised for your sole benefit, Davie.” 

She began a sweet, impassioned medley, that gradually 


196 


WHO WAS SHE? 


became sublime. Her voice trembled, the prayerful plaint 
mingling with the music sad and low. Suddenly voice and 
instrument were silent. Her head fell forward on the keys, 
where her cold fingers yet lingered — the singer had fainted. 
Davie showed sterling qualities on this unexpected occasion, 
and, without alarming any one, she ran to the window, 
threw up the sash, seized a handful of snow from the sill, 
and vigorously applied it to Imogene’s temples so plenti- 
fully and effectually that she was on her feet again before 
Davie fairly understood the situation. Laughing hysteric- 
ally, she tried to explain : 

“ The room is warm, and I am tired ; here, fill my hands 
with snow, they are burning. Y ou were sensible in not 
calling for aid ; now, be generous, and don’t tell any one 
of this foolish weakness of mine. There, the tremble is out 
of me, and I guess I ’ll keep my senses the rest of the even- 
ing. No more improvising; no more music for me to-night. 
Trill your little, soothing ballads ; Davie, I am going to 
find Aunt Ruth.” 

She flashed back a smile as she departed that quite reas- 
sured Davie, and she forgot in the soothing ballads Genie’s 
strange mood and her own alarm. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


197 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

RUTH IS CROSS - QUESTIONED. 

I MOGENE went, as she had said, in quest of Mrs. Lee, 
and found her in the east bedroom, carefully putting 
away the weekly linen. The open bureau - drawers and 
basket of neatly folded clothes indicated that Ruth was 
pleasantly busy, for nothing pleases your thorough house- 
keeper so much as the laying away of a nice ironing. A 
solitary candle, burning near by on the stand, did not give 
a very brilliant light save in the immediate neighborhood 
of the basket, and being so deeply engaged in patting and 
putting away, she did not hear Genie enter. 

“ Aunt Ruth ! ” Mrs. Lee nearly dropped the sheet she 
held at the sound of the girl’s low voice, there was so much 
constrained feeling in it. 

“ Why, child, what in the world ails you ? ” 

“ Nothing.” Again came the sickly laugh. “ I have 
been thinking a great deal lately, and I came to ask you 
something. Let me help you put away the things.” 

“ But we can’t talk here, child ; it ’s too cold,” remon- 
strated Ruth. 

“Wrap this shawl about you. I’m not cold; and I 
would rather speak with you here than elsewhere.” 

Mrs. Lee felt a dread presentiment whither all this pre- 
paration might tend, but passively allowed her to place the 
heavy shawl on her shoulders, curious, yet fearful of the 
conversation that would ensue. Seating herself in a chair 
by the frosty window, Imogene quietly drew another directly 
before her, bending forward so as to read her face, and, sup- 
pressing the excitement under which she was evidently la- 
boring, folded her hands in a listening attitude, and said : 
17 * 


198 


WHO WAS SHE? 


“Now, Aunt Ruth, tell me about my mother — all — 
everything you know, and how her character impressed 
you ” 

Mrs. Lee had long expected something of this kind ; but 
she started at the actual request, which, in Imogene’s pres- 
ent state of mind, was like a command, as if she had not 
before anticipated the question. 

“ It is little I know, dear,” she replied, after a moment’s 
thoughtful hesitation, “ and it were better to let the past 
of us all rest.” 

“Your evasion of the subject does not satisfy me, aunt; 
I must know the truth, be it ever so little. It is a strange, 
sad history, with nothing comforting in it ; but I long for 
every particular as anxiously and earnestly as if it were a 
pleasing story for you to tell and me to hear.” 

“ Your mother came to us in a peculiarly strange man- 
ner, and on the topic of her youth and early girlhood was 
sensitively reticent. I never urged, and she never volun- 
teered a full explanation of what was undoubtedly a very 
sad history. Only twice did she ever allude to it ; once, 
just after her first severe illness, and — and the hour she 
died. You interrupted her last attempt to give me her 
entire confidence, and death left her unable to unravel the 
mystery.” 

“ But you believed her to be a lawful wife ? ” asked the 
girl, search ingly. 

“ Imogene, you are speaking of your mother,” rebuked 
Ruth, more sharply than she was aware. 

“ I know it,” returned Genie, quietly. “ Of my dead 
mother; and that I do speak so is because the arrow is 
deeper in my heart than it will ever pierce yours. The 
mystery of my birth I will know, if it takes years of toil- 
some search. Tell me truly, what did my mother appear 
to you?”' 

“ By me she was ever esteemed and loved as a gentle, 


WHO WAS SHE? 


199 


refined, heart -stricken lady, and that she was pure — a 
lawful wife and mother — I believe, as firmly as I know 
she is now in heaven.” 

“ But the proofs — that ’s what the world will have; else 
* Who was she?’ will descend to me a perpetual blur on her 
fame. My poor, injured mother! Jknow her purity, and, 
by the eternal heavens, I will vindicate her name if I find 
perdition in the seeking.” She struck her hands forcibly 
together, her eyes blazing, and her face a carved stone of 
feeling. Ruth regarded her shudderingly. 

“ Oh, my child, do not give way to such evil passions. 
They are unavailing to reach the truth, and only serve to 
render your thoughts morbid and your life unhappy. Try 
and overcome this mad tumult of conflicting doubts and 
suppositions. She died here in this room, giving you to 
me, and from that hour I have been the richer in another 
daughter. I almost feel her presence now, and see her 
white, thin face on the pillow, fair and seraphic as it used 
to look. It laid there so long patiently dying, watching 
sunset after sunset, and counting the hours that should give 
her rest, that in imagination her gray eyes are always 
turning lovingly toward me when I enter this room. As I 
promised, I have tried to fill her place, Imogene ; and as my 
heart dictated to my own have I given to her child.” Imo- 
gene softened, and pressed her lips to Ruth’s quivering chin. 

“ Indeed you have been a mother to me, dear aunt, a 
kind, indulgent mother. With your own blood have I 
equally shared, and that so delicately that I have never 
felt the sting of charity; and I — I have not been a 
daughter to you, I know, and sorrow for it ; but it is too 
late to correct the past. I have closed my heart so long I 
do not think it can ever open to the most forgiving con- 
fidence. My nature is seared and contracted by a wrong 
guidance at the beginning, until now there is more gall 
than the better part of me can sweeten.” 


200 


WHO WAS SHE? 


Ruth scarcely understood her meaning, but she stroked 
her hair, and in a gentle, confidential way told her every 
word the dead mother had spoken in relation to herself 
and to the future of her child : everything that had the 
slightest bearing on the momentous question of her troubled 
life was faithfully imparted. Elinor left little besides con- 
jecture to expound the enigma. It was all misty guessing, 
and Imogene listened like one who was convinced, but far 
from satisfied. 

When she had finished, Genie crossed her hands on her 
knee, and, looking wistfully in Ruth’s saddened face, said, 
impressively : “ Remember, in thinking of me, remember it 
always, aunty, that if I had known myself better, I would 
have given you my whole duty and love. Think of me as 
a poor, self-willed child, who, though she wronged, yet 
deeply loved you. Think of her as a headstrong, distrust- 
ful woman, lovingly and forgivingly, needing your prayers 
and long patience. The shadows are so thick, and I am 
not myself to-night. The incessant brooding over the 
phantom of my miserable being has soured and perverted 
both love and gratitude. Forgive me, Aunt Ruth ; let me 
go to my bed this night with your blessing.” 

She humbly knelt beside Ruth’s chair and laid her head 
in her lap with the meekness of a little child. Mrs. Lee 
was greatly moved, and both hands went down to the young 
head in whispered blessings, a prayerful complaint mingled 
with her tears, more to the dead than the living : 

“ Oh, Elinor, the time has come, and but for my love I 
am incapable of comforting this young, troubled soul ! 
Poor child ! poor lamb ! beauty, genius, everything but a 
contented spirit.” 

“ Don’t cry,” said Genie, wiping away Ruth’s fast falling 
tears. “ I am not worth crying about. My troubles are 
of my own creating, and I ought to bear them alone. I ’ll 
not forget what you have told me. Good night.” She 


WHO WAS SHE? 


201 


kissed her tenderly, and softly went away to her chamber, 
and immediately retired, quite an unusual proceeding with 
Imogene, for she was in the habit of walking about, look- 
ing out of the window, lifting this and putting down that, 
after going to her room, in a fashion that Davie declared 
made her half crazy. 

Philip pacing under the hickory, Ruth anxious and 
wakeful below; of the three only Genie slept. Mrs. Lee 
could not sleep, and, as she had done when they were chil- 
dren, crept up stairs to make sure that all was right with 
“ the girls.” Davie gave a disturbed sigh of partial wake- 
fulness at the slight sound of the opening door ; but Imo- 
gene slept on heavily, a deep, lethargic slumber, the reac- 
tion of her overstrung nerves, profoundly tranquil and 
natural. Genie might have been the happiest creature in 
the universe for all sign her face gave to the contrary 
As usual, Davie was nearly cuddled out of view under the 
bedclothes; she had a deep-seated dislike to a freezing 
temperature, and anything like a degree below zero sent 
her precipitately out of sight. Her bedfellow, on the other 
hand, delighted in plenty of cold air and ample breathing 
space, and now lay high upon the pillow, a mesh of soft black 
hair curling around her white temples, and two small pink- 
palmed hands folded on the counterpane. The frost was 
glistening thick on the window-panes, and they looked so 
white and tender. Ruth feared they would be cold, and 
gently placed them under the covers. Useless precaution ; 
they were burning hot, in keeping with the feverish glow 
of her scarlet cheeks. Davie stirred again, and snuggled 
her pretty lily-and-rose face close to Genie’s neck — an old 
nestling habit of hers — which in no wise disturbed Imo- 
gene. The light -measured breathing of the two young 
creatures fell like holy music on the watcher’s ear — the 
dark, proud beauty of the one, the sweet fairness of the 
other, a pictured repose that Ruth never forgot, and 


202 


WHO WAS SHE? 


never saw again. No, never again did she stand by the 
bedside with the two young faces radiant before her, and 
ask heaven’s blessing on their unconscious slumber. Surely 
angels must have been there and recorded that last time in 
their pitying tears. It is moments like these that make 
our sacred memories, and counterbalance the sin and incon- 
sistencies of existence. So Ruth construed it, and, thank- 
ing God for that beautiful sleep, left them to the angels. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Elinor’s grave. 

I T was a clear, bright morning, and immediately aftef 
breakfast Imogene, equipped for a walk, slipped out the 
back door, and, unobserved, made directly for the cemetery. 
This silent city lay on a sloping hillside, picturesquely in- 
terspersed by gravelled walks and shaded nooks. In sum- 
mer all those frozen heaps of snow were green and flower- 
decked, overrun with myrtle, fragrant with roses, and starry 
with daisies ; but now, in the cheerless winter, the paths 
were unbroken from the last storm ; a single brown spot 
of crumbled earth near the gate, telling where some poor 
mortal had been laid to rest since it fell, was the only blot 
on that broad expanse of whiteness. The dense evergreens, 
snow-crowned and motionless, stood like grim, imperishable 
sentinels guarding weak mortality. A bleak, dreary place 
is a church-yard in winter, the tall shafts pointing upward, 
and the snow drifting down on white monuments, until it 
seems as if the pale hands of the dead were rising to brush 
it away from their hushed bosoms, and all the voiceless 
multitude proclaiming against its pitiless weight. The 


WHO WAS SHE? 


203 


white covering made every path indistinct ; but Imogene 
knew the way. Her dress, brushing among the shrubs and 
low, flat ceders, sent showers of sifting snow from the heavy- 
laden limbs, but she did not notice or heed the sombre 
aspect of her surroundings. The sun, shining coldly on the 
adjacent hills, and glimmering over the naked woods be- 
yond, looked colder than the snow itself, glaring on the 
trees and haystacks and fences as if pleased at its own 
feebleness. The solitary figure traversing the lonesome way 
did not pause, or lift her head, until she came to a plain 
headstone standing alone except for the three little monu- 
ments on the left. The snow was so deeply drifted about 
the base that the brief inscription was partly obscured. 
She stooped down and scraped it away with her hands, and 
there it stood, cut deep in the stone : 

ELINOR VALE, 

AGED TWENTY-SIX. 

“I have found rest!” 

She died young. Her cross was too heavy, and she 
meekly laid it down here on the hillside, and found the 
longed-for rest. Imogene knelt and kissed the name. The 
frost in the marble made it painfully adhere to her warm 
lips, and this not uncommon phenomenon filled her with the 
superstitious belief that the poor dead was sensible of her 
caress. 

“ Even my mother’s lettered name clings to me, and my 
kiss on her tombstone answers my breath with instant fond- 
ness,” she murmured. A leafless rose-bush that, in summer, 
bent under a load of white blossoms, but now boasting only 
a few red berries, lightly came in contact with her sleeve. 
She started ; for it was like the slow touch of her mother’s 
hand. Oh, that poor hand, so long buried, so thin and 
wasted before it died ! The feeble hand that now rested 
like a reproach on Philip’s head, had not yet lost its gentle 


204 


WHO WAS SHE? 


influence. The rustle of a rose-bush recalled it, and the 
unhappy child folded her arms across the top of the simple 
slab beneath which her mother slumbered, and, lifting her 
eyes to the chill blue sky, evoked the aid of her parent : 
“Spirit of my dead mother, guide me ! Direct my steps; I 
need your counsel and love ; show me where to walk, for 
my feet are stumbling ! Thou knowest who planted the 
thorns, and made my heart as desolate as this shrouded 
landscape. His baseness I could have borne, and counted 
neglect and desertion as nothing ; but his cruel slander of 
thee I will avenge. I come to your grave for strength and 
guidance, mother, that you might be near and he afar in 
this, my holy hour.” Her head fell to the clasped hands, 
and she stood quite still, her face hidden in her mantle. A 
few snowbirds hopped in and out among the firs, and one, 
more bold than the rest, regardless of the silent form, be- 
gan pecking at the red berries of the rose-bush. 

It might have been five minutes or twenty ; she did not 
know. She heard nothing, saw nothing, until the subtle 
instinct that warns us we are not alone, impelled her to 
look up. A dark shadow lay athwart the mound, and 
there, on the other side of Elinor’s icy grave, stood Philip 
Shirley. The military cloak, muffled close about the chin, 
concealed the lower part of his features, leaving only the 
deep, unfathomable eyes visible. He did not utter a word, 
nor offer the least apology for his untimely intrusion. His 
keen gaze seemed computing the length and breadth of 
the lowly mound, without bestowing a glance on the indig- 
nant mourner. Imogene’s wrath instantly kindled, and 
the insulted blood surged back to her heart in an angry 
tide. 

“How dare you desecrate this sacred spot with your 
polluting footsteps? ” she demanded, sternly. “ The name- 
less daughter of the nameless dead bids you begone. The 
heritage of pride that crushed her Jiving is my birthright, 


WHO WAS SHE? 


205 


and it shall protect her dust. If you are not quite devoid 
of shame, leave me and the poor defenceless mould you 
have falsely traduced.” 

Cut to the quick, the discomfited officer bit his lip, and 
deprecatingly motioned her to be silent. 

“ In God’s name, hush ! your tongue blisters the very 
air,” he adjured, looking more sorrowful than angry. 

Imogene lost nothing of her severity, and continued : 

“ Cross my path when and where you may, Captain 
Shirley, you will never find me humbled. Remember, to- 
night, at seven, I shall await you.” 

The crisp snow yielding beneath her rapid tread was all 
the sound for a moment ; then it was still again, and Philip 
alone in the church-yard. 

A sudden something had urged him to Elinor’s grave, 
and something stronger than his will, for he did not care 
to go, and in following the small foot-prints he had no 
thought of whither they directed, or of whose feet had 
made them. Yet here he was, facing Imogene’s rage, and 
viewing her mother’s tablet, without clearly knowing how 
he came there. He was glad to be alone, that he might 
live over again his first and last interview with Elinor. 
“You will be kind to Genie when I am gone, Philip?” 
How distinctly the words came back through the lapse of 
years ! Her hand was on his head, his head upon her 
breast. He was a boy again, and crying at her knee. Eli- 
nor had predicted his future greatness, and in the same 
breath had prayed him to be kind to Gypsy. Surely she 
could have spoken only wisdom with the death-mark upon 
her, and possibly may have foreseen what his kindness 
might lead to. Mechanically his fingers began tracing the 
chiselled letters, spelling out the name without the aid of 
the sharp, bold eyes. The folds of his cloak, hanging half 
over the stone like a pall, did not altogether conceal the 
18 


206 


WHO WAS SHE? 


workings of his broad breast, nor the quick, distressful 
shiver that ran over him from head to foot. 

“ Great God, have I come to this ! ” he cried, despair- 
ingly. “ That I should stand here a guilty wretch despis- 
ing myself — a cringing culprit shrinking before a bit of 
decaying earth that was once a woman, with eyes like a 
dove, that are looking at me yet. I see the moonbeam 
across her feet, and smell the odor of the autumn flowers. 
Self-accused, self-condemned, self-accursed ! Here and now, 
I will cancel the evil thoughts and commence anew. I’ll 
play the traitor no longer ! I ’ll go back to first principles 
and redeem the past. After all, my heart has never been 
in this miserable apostasy. I will be kind to Gypsy, and 
keep through life every promise I have made her; in 
making her happy I throw off this incubus forever, and am 
Phil Shirley once more. I have been mad, for, deny it as 
I will, Imogene is the best of me. She is my conscience, 
the dearer half; and, if fame comes, we will share it 
together. I can’t withstand her influence. To plan in 
Arizona and act in Ohio are two very different things. I 
won’t have a grave reproaching me, any way — a white- 
faced woman continually on my track, that I know has 
been dead a dozen years. I am as brave as anybody, but 
I am not equal to fighting shadows, nor breaking a woman’s 
heart. Yes, I’ll lift Genie with me, and sink the obscurity 
of her name in the glory of mine. Why did I not think 
of it before ? What have I not endured since I looked in 
her eyes last night ? I ought to have known, without this 
terrible experience, that existence is a farce, and aspira- 
tions a wreck, where she is not ! It is all right now, thank 
heaven ; and when she will, I ’ll show the world my beautiful 
Gypsy — wife.” 

Thus Philip settled it with his conscience and Imogene, 
never doubting her willingness to excuse his queer conduct, 
or dreaming that the spell was broken and she no longer 


WHO WAS SHE? 


207 


under the influence of his magic wand. But he had this 
yet to learn, and struck out briskly for home. The fight 
was over. He was ready to meet Imogene with the old 
love, and impatiently awaited the evening. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE TRYST. * 

P ERHAPS Captain Shirley would have been a little 
less self-confident if he had known how determinedly 
Imogene had set about abjuring him. She was prepared 
to meet him, not in tender supplication, but fearless defi- 
ance. She would never forgive that inadvertent allusion 
to her mother, vowing, with inflexible purpose, that Philip 
might conquer the world, but he could never remount the 
throne from which she in contempt cast him down. The 
wheels of the Juggernaut had gone over her idol, and it lay 
crushed at the foot of the pedestal, never to be again 
worthy of the old idolatry. 

To avoid suspicion, she informed Davie that she thought 
of spending the day out, and they need not expect her to 
tea. It was often quite impossible to evade Davie’s unin- 
vited company, and seeing she was about to offer the same, 
Imogene added quietly: “And while I am gone, I’ll be so 
much obliged if you will finish that bit of worsted-work 
of mine. You know I don’t like to touch fancy wools, 
and I want the sofa-pillow for Susie Johnson’s Christmas 
present.” 

Davie looked a little disappointed, but readily accepted 
the task. The unsuspecting, obliging little soul comforted 
herself by mentally resolving to astonish Genie by the 


208 


WHO WAS SHE? 


number of flowers she would do in her absence. Imogene 
was particular in her dress this afternoon, and was a long 
time about her hair, tying it all back with a rose-colored 
ribbon, that left her face free of its heavy abundance. 

Her dress was black, her hood and mantle crimson, the 
soft, flannel-like texture just matching the glow of her 
cheek, and became her beautifully — so Davie said, and 
she was a good critic. The last thing she did was to slip 
on her finger the serpent ring. Davie did not see it ; only 
Genie knew the talisman was there, and she hugged the 
hand that wore it to her bosom, never relinquishing the 
pressure until forced to remove it before meeting the gay 
greetings of the lynx-eyed Susie, but it lay in its velvet 
case above her troubled heart all the time she was respond- 
ing to the diversified gossip of an afternoon visit. Never 
was Imogene so brilliant. She sang and played and laughed 
and conversed in a merry, social way that quite astounded 
those who thought her reserved and supercilious. She 
admired everything and everybody, and made herself so 
charmingly agreeable that she even interested deaf old Mrs. 
J ohnson, and sympathized with Susie’s many flirtations. 

Seven o’clock found her at the foot of the rock, and the 
ring again on her finger. Unobserved, she saw Philip, 
standing as he had stood the night before, with the moon, 
brighter than last evening, shining on the hickory limbs, 
and casting leafless shadows on the ground. Not a breath 
of wind to-night ; not a cloud in the star-studded zenith. 
Nature lay stark, frozen, lifeless ; not a sound save a frost- 
snapped twig, and a dreamy chime of distant sleigh-bells. 
The moon, sailing far up in the blue-vaulted sky, seemed 
anchored in its voyage to witness the sequence of a man’s 
rash folly and a woman’s perverse pride. 

Her step was firmer as she drew near ; as if, to fortify 
her heart and maintain a proper haughtiness, it were 
necessary to assume a stern demeanor. Philip came to 


WHO WAS SHE? 


209 


meet her, and, as she kept her hand close under her man- 
tle, he laid his on her shoulder, and, regardless of her 
severe deportment, said, with the same sturdy frankness 
with which he used to confess his boyish faults : 

“ Imogene, I am the better for my visit to the hillside 
this morning, and I am sorry I said what I did about — 
about what I never meant to say. Forgive the reflection, 
Genie. Forgive whatever hard thing there may be in your 
heart against me. I am here willing — more than willing 
— to make the past good, and live up to it in act and 
word.” 

Here was her triumph ! Phil was himself, honest an(J 
earnest. Her heart recognized her old ci-devant , , candid, 
imperious lover in the glance of his unflinching eye, and the 
ring of his clear, melodious voice. She could not speak for 
joy, and turned away that he might not see the fierce de- 
light in her eyes. 

“You are kind,” she said, mockingly. “Your conde- 
scension should be rewarded. I am sorry I cannot imitate 
your magnanimity. And so you are willing to ‘make the 
past good?’ Most generous of you, indeed, sir! and I freely 
confess my admiration.” 

“ I would not try to be too satirical, Genie,” he replied, 
without a sign of resentment. “ I expected your sarcasm, 
and am not going to mind it a bit. I acknowledge you 
have the best of me in this case ; but it ’s not our first 
quarrel. You have scratched and pinched and bit me ever 
since nature, gave you teeth and nails. I never was far 
behind you in these necessary youthful accomplishments, 
and, when every other persuasion failed, shook you into 
good nature ; but, out of respect to a long dress, I ’d rather 
not do it now. So, let us kiss, and call it square.” 

A look of disdain was all she vouchsafed him, and Philip 
went on as if he had not seen it. 

“ You know I love you, always — and only you ! But a 
18 * 


210 


WHO WAS SHE? 


pernicious demon of ambition got hold of me, and the per- 
tinacity of the thing, and the countenance I gave it, is 
something I wonder at now. I am inclined to think that 
the devil had the upper hand, and, instead of being so cross, 
you ought to smile that I am rid of the old fellow. We 
could make up in three minutes if you only would, and 
then I ’d tuck you under my arm, and see you home regular 
village-fashion, and we would have a pleasant evening with 
Davie. Let me see your eyes, Gyp ; they are the barome- 
ters that used to guide me just before and after a storm. I 
have often measured the length and depth of your anger in 
your splendid eyes, sweet, and will venture it again. The 
heart that can’t forgive, is not a woman’s. I lost my wits, 
and you caught the contagion ; but it is nothing serious, 
and, as ever, I put my faith in your love ! ” 

“ Take it back, then, for I do not love you.” 

She was very straight and still, keeping her eyes away, 
fearful that they might betray the relenting that would 
have come but for the ring rising and falling on the hand 
upon her heart. 

“ Pooh ! yes, you do ; as if I did not know Gypsy ! Loyal 
and true, I have asked your pardon, and I now claim — ” 

“ Nothing of me, sir,” she broke in, harshly. “ Have I 
sunk so pitifully low in your estimation that to - day you 
spurn me like a dog, and to-morrow sicken me with your 
fulsome attempts to caress and flatter ? Am I that thing so 
low, so utterly degraded, that your flippant pity bends your 
worthless pride? You boast of understanding my nature, 
but you fall far short in your reckoning if you ever expect 
me to believe in your protestations again. I tell you, Philip 
Shirley, what was love has turned to w T ormwood, embitter- 
ing every tender emotion ; and you profess to know me, 
with your puerile air and words ! I wish my tongue was 
adequate to express the utter loathing I feel for your mean 
assumption of contrition.” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


211 


The withering scorn of her look and voice did not dis- 
turb Philip’s equanimity, and, not in the least nonplussed, 
he replied, with great composure : “ I will venture my com- 
mission that you are dying to cry this minute, and almost 
on the point of surrendering.” 

“Cry! Do you think I have shed a tear since the 
snow drank them here at your feet? You struck deeper 
then, than you have power to heal, and the wound is 
mortal.” 

She was trembling with anger, but Philip interposed 
firmly: “Imogene, hear me.” 

“Not till I have done. You have changed me to a 
demon woman, and you need not to appeal to my heart, for 
it is a barren desert — not one green thing in the waste you 
have created. I fling from me the old time, and the old 
affection. I lift my heart from beneath your treacherous 
feet, and take back my poor remnant of love. I am not 
bowed. I am not forsaken. You are unworthy, and I 
cast you off. A weak woman might die, but a strong one 
will live. The mendacious monster you call ambition has 
not quite destroyed my reason nor self-respect, and I with- 
draw from your dangerous favor the wiser, but not the 
worse, for your perfidy.” 

“Now, Imogene — ” 

“ Not yet ; you shall hear my mind, and then we part 
forever. Nameless — am I ? my mother’s honor maligned, 
and by you. Her fame questioned — a defenceless woman 
in her grave — her life misjudged, and myself contemned, 
because I am her child — and dying, left me, unknown and 
fatherless, to meet the vile suspicions of men like Philip 
Shirley. A goodly hero, I trow ! A most noble soldier 
and gallant chieftain ! I bow to the generous spirit, and 
reverence the exalted lineage from which he sprang.” 

A mocking bow and smile accompanied the derisive 
words, stinging her before complacent companion into a 


212 


WHO WAS SHE? 


savage retort that ill accorded with his heretofore good 
nature. 

“ A curse on your sneering raillery ; I will not bear it 
even from you.” 

“ But you must,” she returned maliciously. “You humil- 
iated me here, and here will I have revenge. Good heavens ! 
was it I who knelt at your feet only last night, and craved 
to be restored to countenance? Oh, how I hate myself! If 
I knew where ran the coward blood that could so demean 
me, I would open the vein and let it out before it should 
dishonor me again. You offer to make good the past; now 
listen : I swear before high heaven that I would not be your 
wife to save the universe from destruction and my own soul 
from eternal annihilation. Thus I hurl back your scorn, 
and brand you false and cowardly ! ” 

“ By heavens, woman ! I will not tamely submit to your 
outrageous invectives! I will not” — 

“ Soft. I face you with a spirit fearless as your own, 
and do not tremble at your scowling wrath. My life is not 
worth the spilling, therefore do not tarnish the snow with 
the pauper puddle.” 

“Your insinuations are enough to make a man swear 
himself to the devil ; but if you will keep up this useless 
tirade, in the name of Satan go on, and the sooner you 
scold it out the better. I ’ll pray for patience, and control 
my temper, if I can ; but don’t tempt me too far.” Con- 
sidering the state of Imogene’s mind, this speech was 
doubly tantalizing, and exasperated her into the very acme 
of an acrimonious retort that made him wince in spite of 
his inward resolve to endure whatever she might say in 
philosophical unconcern. 

Imogene was literally white with passion, and confronted 
him with rage -quivering lips and a scathing malediction 
in the flaming black eyes. Philip drummed his foot on the 
ground in a way that might be construed into a challenge 


WHO WAS SHE? 


213 

for her to proceed, or an indifferent intimation of reconcili- 
ation. Imogene, however, was thinking of anything but a 
renewal of their broken friendship. Advancing a step, she 
lifted her hand — that white, womanly right hand, that 
God intended should be raised only in blessings — tremu- 
lous with fierce emotions. It shook above her erring head 
like an aspen, pointing the depth and vehemence of her 
scorching ebullitions. 

“ Y° u jeer at my birth, and you, like myself, a beggar ! 
Educated by charity ; elevated by a rich man’s eccentricity 
to the bounty of the Government ; fostered on the country 
to slay and maim — truly a glorious career — hangman’s 
work on a grand scale ! Steep your ambitious sword to the 
hilt in human blood ; strew death, desolation, and ruin in 
your track ; mount to greatness through the tears of widows 
and orphans, heralded by their groans of despair, and 
bannered by their garments of woe, black as the night of 
their sorrow ! Satiate your lofty aspirations in the shrieks 
of war’s dying victims ! March to renown over the mangled 
remains of thousands of bleeding wretches ! Win immor- 
tality by filling all the land with mourning and the blight- 
ing of innumerable hearts and homes, and call it glory ! 
This is fame ; this is victory ; this the exaltation you seek! 
A shame on your manhood, a ghoul to mankind ! ” 

“ Hold ! ” he cried, authoritatively, wrathful in his turn, 
a darkling gleam flashing from the kindling eyes. “ Do 
not drive me into forgetting that you are a woman, at least 
in semblance — a very Proserpina. I wonder how your 
heart can distil such venom.” 

“Through the laboratory of your falsity,” she hissed, 
contemptuously, with a smile that partook of the hiss. 

“ You have spoken ; now hear me,” said Philip, decis- 
ively, planting his heavy figure directly before her, like 
one who meant to be heard and would not tolerate an inter- 
ruption. “ I know you have cause to be angry, and there- 


214 


WHO WAS SHE? 


fore I accept your harsh denunciations as a merited punish- 
ment for what was the most cruel and selfishly wanton act 
of my life. But there is a limit to all things, and you have 
gone far enough. I have come to make reparation, not to 
alienate still more your affection. It is already bad enough. 
Here is my hand ; won’t you take it, Gypsy?” 

“Never!” She pushed away his extended hand, recoil- 
ing from it, as if to touch it were contamination. Philip 
looked hurt and worried. Imogene did not shrink from 
the magnetic, almost sorrowful, eyes that fixed themselves 
rebukingly upon her. The full, penetrating gaze, though 
it did not conquer, restrained her from replying. She did 
not droop a lash, nor change color, but she saw the soften- 
ing boy-smile creep to the man’s bearded mouth, and slowly 
merge into the brave, bright eyes, where the fond, old love 
lingered yet. Phil’s eyes ! Phil’s smile ! Dear Philip ! 
The name-was in her heart — nay, on her lips. Involun- 
tarily she closed the hand, that all this time had been 
pressed hard against her bosom, to suppress the sob she felt 
coming with it. The ring cut against her finger. It re- 
minded her of the solemn vow that heart had taken. Imo- 
gene was iron again, and the precious moment gone. 

Philip did not dream of how the serpent was beguiling 
her, though so far from their Eden, and determined on one 
more overture, hoping from her silence that the fire had 
burned itself out never to be rekindled. 

“Is it peace, or will you repulse me again? You know 
you belong to me, Gypsy, and I claim but my own.” He 
attempted to draw her to him, but she warded him off with 
outstretched hands. The moonlight caught the jewelled 
ring, radiating like a blaze. 

“ Where did you get that ? ” he demanded quickly, sur- 
prised beyond noticing her hasty repulsion of himself. She 
laughed nervously. 

“Look at it,” holding it toward him — a spot of blood 


WHO WAS SHE? 


215 


on a perfect hand — “ study it well, for it contains a history. 
Can a Shirley boast a gem so rare? It is a little thing, 
made to fit a woman’s finger and chain her heart ; yet it is 
the dividing line between you and me, a mighty obstacle 
that your loudest acclamations of undying love cannot 
surmount. The eclaireissement of what is past, and for 
which you say you are sorry, is not sufficient to eradicate 
the stigma you have put upon this bauble. Remember 
me as always being guarded by an asp, for it is the crest 
of my father’s house, and my mother wore it honorably. 
She affirmed it with death-palsied tongue, and I, her child, 
stake my soul that it is true. She left me only this — a 
serpent that might sting those who dared to traduce her 
memory, a heart that shall bleed until justice be done.” 

Philip regarded the girl in amazement, evincing no dis- 
position to avail himself of the pause that ensued. Imo- 
gene was thoughtful a moment, and then resumed, looking 
upward, as if registering her purpose on high : 

“ I swear, by the memory of my sainted mother, that I 
will vindicate her virtues. If dead lips cannot speak, I’ll 
tear the truth from living hearts. If this be the token that 
sunk her name to vulgar comment, it shall also be the em- 
blem of restoring it to fairest fame ; and my father’s daugh- 
ter, speaking through Elinor’s child, calls heaven to wit- 
ness the vow. I dedicate my life to its accomplishment, 
and will never weary until her rights and mine are estab- 
lished.” 

“ Imogene, you don’t know what you are saying. You 
are talking wildly, and I can’t accept it as serious. I was 
a brute to mention your parentage in the way I did, for 
your mother’s memory is my all of religion, my one ideal 
of a perfectly spotless woman, my one idea of angels, my 
one belief in heaven, my single interpretation of God. I 
am a heathen without the pure recollections of Elinor. I 
found her forgiveness before I left yonder grave, and came 


21G 


WHO WAS SHE? 


away in peace and hope. You are tired out trying to be 
that which you are not. Be calm and considerate now, 
and let me set myself right as far as I may in your present 
mood.” 

“ Speak ! ” She folded her arms, signifying her willing- 
ness to listen. The great black dilated eyes fell from his 
face to the snow, hiding the inflexible determination that 
no pleading could soften. 

“ There is a spirit within me that demands more than I 
can give. It demanded you, Imogene, as a first sacrifice ; 
but I could not do it, though I tried. It is powerful, and 
succeeded in persuading me that, to be great, I must be 
free, and in my wife must seek a fair, open, ancestral 
descent ; but I loved you without it, and we will be happy 
without it. It is a sad, pitiable part we have been playing; 
let us forget it, and commemorate anew this 5th of Janu- 
ary. Did you think of that, Gypsy ? ” 

“ Did I think of that ! ” She only repeated the words 
after him, like an echo, but the pain in her voice and the 
sudden whitening of her face told how keenly she remem- 
bered. 

Philip could not bear that look of intense suffering, and 
again offered his hand. 

“Come home to my heart, darling ; you have been exiled 
long enough, and your place is here.” 

She hesitated for a moment, but only a moment. “You 
shall not mutilate my soul, and then think to kiss the 
wound. I am nothing to you, and you are worse than 
nothing to me.” 

“Nonsense, Gyp, to so coolly condemn me to celibacy. If 
you are to continue thus obstinate, I shall never marry.” 

It was a wretched attempt at jesting, and her lip curled 
ominously. 

“ You marry — you keep a promise ! ” 

No words can depict the scorn of her look as she said it. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


217 


Philip instantly hardened. There was no mistaking her 
gesture of intense disgust, and he did not choose to seem alto- 
gether pliant. A sleigh flew by with a joyous ring of bells, 
and a fragment of gay laughter — swift hoof-beats trotting 
along the road ; two happy young lovers, tucked to the eyes 
in white robes ; the cold, clear sky and frosty air. Only 
two years ago, and this was the 5th of January ! Both 
started, for the sleigh-bells spoke of other days, when they 
were all in all to each other. Philip sighed, and Imogene 
listened wistfully. All was still again, and, with a shiver- 
ing shrug, she said : 

“ I feel prophetic.” • 

“Well, then, prophesy,” returned Philip, curtly. 

“ I will ; and predict that the time will come when you 
will beg for what you last night threw away.” 

“ That is a stupid prophecy, for I have done so already.” 

Imogene gave no attention to this pertinent remark. 

“ The time will come when your plebeian name will be 
too obscure to mate with mine. They say I am beautiful. 
I know it ; and it is a beauty that will bring princes to my 
worship. I am gifted, too. Genius wins homage, and I 
can afford to lose yours. Go your way, Philip Shirley. 
Freely I give back your promises. Only you and I, and 
God, know their solemnity ; but they were not worth the 
breath that uttered them. I go out of your life from to- 
night, a grave of dead hopes in my heart; and you, though 
you may not forget me, will grow callous and godless, find- 
ing too late that the eagles were not worth scaling the 
eyry to possess. I have been in the habit of calling the 
• gray old house of David Lee my home — a fallacy like 
the rest. I am but tarrying for a while until I see iny way 
clear.” 

Philip caught his breath in real alarm. “ Don’t think 
of going out into the world, Imogene. I know something 
of }t — a whirlpool that swallows up beauty and destroys 
19 


218 


WHO WAS SHE? 


youth. To think of you homeless and friendless — oh, 
Gypsy, I could not stand that ! ” 

“ To wander poor and unprotected, like my mother 
before me. It is but meet, and the Scriptures are being 
fulfilled. It is written that the sins of the parent shall 
visit the child, and as my mother was deserted, so am I.” 

He grasped her arm sternly, like a master who would 
curb a refractory pupil. 

“ Enough of this, Imogene, it is too serious for trifling. 
You shall not, do you hear? shall not turn your back on 
the love and safety of your home, to drift, God knows 
where. I will use my authority in this matter, and say 
again, you must yield to me.” 

Notwithstanding Philip’s severe aspect, she haughtily 
shook off his grasp, and contemptuously replied : 

“You have insulted, outraged, and wronged me. It is 
forgiven, but I can’t forget. Were fifty hells the conse- 
quence, I would accept them rather than return to your 
thraldom. I would reject heaven if it were offered by you, 
and disdain happiness at your hands.” 

“ Be calm, Imogene, and hear to reason.” 

“ I am calm ; I am reasonable. The first hot rage is 
passed. We are not enemies ; neither are we friends ; we 
are simply strangers. You will gain your meed of praise, 
no doubt; and I wish you joy of your Head-sea apples. 
You have won the fruit, and may it satisfy! My childhood 
was a part of yours ; my girlhood a reflection of yourself ; 
and this, my premature womanhood, the handiwork of 
Philip Shirley. Look at me well, and remember, to your 
dying day, the face that conceals the agony of a murdered 
heart. In tent or field, remember it. In the heat of 
battle and the flush of victory it will rise up the one 
reproach ; and from out the past Elinor’s spectre hand will 
reach forth to sting the laurels that, green to the world, 
shall be an upas to you. Plant your banner where you 


WHO WAS SHE? 


219 


may, draw your sword in whatsoever cause you will, yet from 
this moment be forever haunted. I could pity you, had I 
any pity left. I can only repeat, go your way, and leave 
me to follow mine.” 

Philip arrested her apparent intention of departing and 
ending the inauspicious interview without further recrim- 
ination, by promptly stepping before her. 

“ There is an element of persistency in your nature far 
more implacable and cruel than mine, heavily as I am 
cursed in that respect,” he said, reprovingly. “I am not 
to be angered nor scoffed into permitting you to leave me 
in this state of mind, and, before yonder moon sets, you 
must say you are sorry, and own up that you love me, for 
that you do I know as well as that I am standing here.” 

“ Never ! I ’d cut out my tongue if it dared to so de- 
grade me.” 

“ Oh, you wild-cat ! now see how impotent your rage,” 
said the audacious captain, coolly picking her up, and 
covering her face with kisses. Bewildered by this unlooked- 
for bit of strategy, Imogene did not affect to struggle, but 
lay resigned in his arms, too confused for any immediate 
resistance. Evidently, Phil was surprised, for he had ex- 
pected a tussle as a reward for such a very summary pro- 
ceeding, and, being a good soldier, he was not going to be 
taken off his guard by a feint. 

“Now, don’t be cross,” he begged, laughingly. “A 
spunky woman is the very deuce to appease, unless it is 
strength versus temper.” 

She made no answer, and thinking he had over-estimated 
Miss Vale’s fighting qualities, Philip’s arms relaxed. She 
remained quite motionless, and but for the bright, wide- 
open eyes, looked and lay like one unconscious. There 
was a little self-vanity in the smile hovering about his 
mouth when he said, “You talk, and I act; now T ain’t you 
sorry, Gypsy ? ” 


220 


WHO WAS SHE? 


“ Villain ! ” She sprang fiercely to her feet, and half 
struck, half pushed him from her so violently that he stum- 
bled, and but for the fence would have fallen prostrate. A 
devil of passion leaped to Philip’s eyes; he turned like 
lightning, and, by a single blow, struck her to the earth ; 
not senseless, but stunned, and whiter than the snow. Oh, 
what would Philip Shirley not have given to recall that 
second of time! The suddenness of the blow, and the 
act that provoked it, paralyzed him into momentary faint- 
ness, and sick, and helpless, he leaned against the tree for 
support. 

What had he done? He was afraid to look at the still 
figure on the ground. In pity the long, curling hair veiled 
the cold white cheek, creeping from the bright hood on its 
errand of mercy to cover the pallid brow, and hide the 
expression of the stony eyes. Faint almost to unconscious- 
ness, Philip cowered beside the tree, unable to speak or 
move. He was hurt by far the worse, and looked as a 
murderer might, viewing the scene of his crime. 

Imogene was the first to recover, and quietly regained 
her feet, with the blood slowly dropping from her mouth. 
She had cut her lip in the fall, and the ghastly stain soiled 
all the snow where the pale face had lain. She feebly raised 
her hand, marred by the shuddering blood-spots, and glit- 
tering with its rare old jewel, and put back her disordered 
hair. She turned to look at him — strong, noble-hearted, 
miserable Philip, with his face concealed, all but the large 
brow r , in his cloak, stifled moans breaking from his great 
bosom, and the stout, hardy, vigorous frame trembling. 
Still looking, her hand kept smoothing the rebellious hair, 
perfectly unaware of what it was doing, and from vacant, 
her eyes became thoughtful, then pitiful, and at last tender. 
In Philip’s greater suffering, Imogene had forgotten her own, 
and smiled, oh, horror ! she actually laughed, to find her- 
self capable of tender pity again for — Philip ! She came 


WHO WAS SHE? 


221 


softly nearer, a woman’s love in her voice, and a woman’s 
gentleness in the hand she laid upon his shoulder. 

“I am sorry now , Phil ! I am sorrow for you.” Her arm 
went round his neck in the way it knew so well, and she 
kissed the little space of cheek the muffling cloak left visi- 
ble. “We are parted, but as I hope to be forgiven I for- 
give, and the love that was so hard in dying is forever 
peacefully dead.” He felt a tress of silky hair brush his 
forehead, the removal of a slender arm, and he was alone. 

The soldier, crouching by the tree where he had once 
dreamed of fame and fought the battle of the squirrel, a 
little black-eyed girl for confidante, sobbed alone in shame 
and sorrow. 

“ I would rather have died,” he groaned. “ Fiend, devil ! 
what have I done ? She drove me to it. I tried to forbear.” 
Starting up, he called frantically, “ Gypsy ! Gypsy ! ” He 
made a mad plunge down the icy bank. “ Gypsy ! Gypsy!” 
But there was no answer ; no one was near. He was alone 
in the wintry solitude. Retracing his steps, he gained the 
brow of the rock, and the man who had never before 
known fear, quailed at sight of a little blood upon the 
snow. A spot no bigger than his hand, yet it seemed to 
widen out a sea of crimson at his feet, that imagination 
could never make less. He clenched his hands and beat 
his brow in a savage frenzy of remorseful regret. The 
paroxysm of rage burst forth in muttered curses, prayers, 
and oaths against himself and heaven, so deep and awful 
that would have frightened the most wicked to hear. 

“Blood will always follow your footsteps.” The wind, 
or some other spirit of the air, brought the words to him. 
Twice had the mark been upon her by act of his. He 
would efface this, and springing to the spot, he trod it 
fiercely into the ground, leaving only a dark space of dirty, 
trampled snow to tell where the most deplorable act of 
Philip Shirley’s life had been committed, Not satisfied 
19 * 


222 


WHO WAS SHE? 


with this, the madman struck his closed hand against the 
old hickory with a force that sent the ragged bark trem- 
bling to the earth in scaly crumbles. Until the moon set, 
he paced the narrow circle of its branches, and turned his 
back on it at last with a bitter imprecation on the secret it 
possessed and the sin it had witnessed. And Mrs. Shirley 
could have told that after his return from the unpropitious 
tryst, Philip walked the floor all night, muttering and acfc 
ing altogether like one demented, and that next day it was 
as much as your life was worth to so much as look at him. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE MIDNIGHT VIGIL. 

I MOGENE never knew how she got home that evening, 
only that she managed to get up to her room unob- 
served, where she put away her outdoor wrappings, bathed 
her face, and smoothed her hair, all very quiet and natural, 
as if nothing unusual had occurred. Davie came in, sur- 
prised to find that she had returned, while she had been 
troubling her little soul that it was so late, and Genie 
might be frightened again coming through the bleak night 
alone. 

“Well, I am glad you are safe back ; I was just worry- 
ing about you. Did you have a nice visit?” 

“ Oh, delightful ! I don’t think I shall ever forget this 
charming day.” 

“ I knew you would like society, if fairly initiated. I 
finished your work — a Christmas present — a week after 
New-Year’s ; but better late than never. Just see — three 
rosebuds, a lily of the valley, and four leaves ; ain’t they 


WHO WAS SHE? 


223 


nicely shaded ? I am greatly your superior in blending 
colors, Genie,” holding up the work and admiring it on all 
sides. “ I thought of you every stitch, as glad as I could 
be that you were having a good time.” 

“ Dear, kind Davie ! Susie shall never have this work. 
I ’ll keep it myself in memento of the blue eyes that were 
busy over it the day I was so happy.” Imogene kissed her, 
and placed the brilliant square of worsted in the topmost 
drawer, where her precious things were stored. “I am 
dreadful tired and sleepy,” she remarked, after a brief 
silence, forcing a yawn that was too prolonged to be 
natural. 

“Well, that is queer. I fancied you never got sleepy 
like other mortals. If I was old Morpheus, I would feel 
vastly complimented. I have often been tempted to search 
pharmacy for a somnific potion that should rival the famous 
snooze of Juliet,” said Davie, beginning to let down her 
blonde braids, and taking out a hair-pin between each 
word, as if they were periods and merited a full-stop. 

“ Long, fair hair,” said Imogene, twining it through her 
fingers. “Poor Juliet’s nap was sadly disastrous to her 
love ; sleep was fatal in her case.” 

“ No ; it was not. Romeo killed himself too soon,” de- 
fended Davie. “ Sleep came out all right. In the language 
of the poet, or somebody else, ‘pison did it,’” she laughed. 

Genie did not participate in her lightness ; her mind was 
on a different tack, and said, musingly : “ I believe the 
fair are always good.” 

“ Y ou forget Lucretia Borgia and Queen Elizabeth.” 

“ Oh, I do not mean the extremes,” returned Imogene, 
gathering up Davie’s straight, golden, light locks, and lay- 
ing them against her face. “How would I look with 
such angel tresses ? Did you ever hear tell of, or see pic- 
tured, a black-haired angel ? I think not we make the 
devils ! ” 


224 WHO WAS SHE? 

“ Why, Genie ! and I just going to say my prayers,” 
reproved Davie. 

“ Well, it is true. Painters always insist on making the 
bad, vicious, murderous women and angels dark, beautiful, 
but suggestive of Erebus, divinities of the Plutonian shore, 
banished by birthright from the brighter sphere. I ’m of 
the lost sisterhood ; so what is the good of praying? You 
are shocked ; but I am wicked, Davie. I feel wicked all 
through me.” 

Imogene dropped the braid — wavy strands of gold, and 
gloomily fell to contemplating her own image in the glass 
above the dressing-table. 

Davie was so hurt she could not speak for a moment ; 
and, not knowing what else to do, burst into tears. “ Oh, 
Genie, how can you say that, when you had a sweet, gentle 
mother, who taught you that our Father’s love was alike to 
all his children ? I would not have such b-a-d th-ough-ts,” 
said Davie, with a final sob that scattered thought into 
half a dozen sighing syllables. 

Imogene whirled around sharply : “ Where is my mo- 
ther’s God ? I am stiff-necked and distrustful of his mercy 
and justice. Show him to me, and I will adore. I doubt, 
Davie, I doubt everything.” 

“ I ’m not wise, like you, Genie ; but I think, if my mother 
were dead, that I should' find God in her memory, and 
believe in heaven that she were there.” 

“ Oh, Davie ! Davie ! you little know, you little dream 
that — but never mind. You reason from a sinless heart, 
I from one embittered. I’ll not wound you again; there, 
brush away the tears, and let me kiss you in token that I 
am sorry I caused them.” 

Davie complied, and a moment after was curled down at 
the foot of the bed, methodically saying her prayers. She 
seldom ventured on anything original in her limited ori- 
sons ; it was the same little formal “ Now I lay me down to 


WHO WAS SHE? 


225 


sleep,” learned at Ruth’s knee, interlarded by a brief allu- 
sion to a few particular personal friends, and sometimes a 
casual reference to extra transgressions incurred through 
the day. On this occasion she solemnly added a codicil 
expressly in wicked Genie’s behalf; after which she felt 
vastly comforted, and jumped into bed, satisfied that the 
naughty words were blotted out of the celestial book that 
recorded Imogene’s terrestrial sins. 

After she was asleep, which was not many minutes after 
her head touched the pillow, Imogene placed the candle on 
a chair near the shunned window, and, kneeling down, laid 
the ring on its blue woollen homemade cushion, and, with 
her chin in her hands, looked at it long and earnestly. 
“ Here is the only key I have to the mystery,” she mut- 
tered. “ Who was my father ? My mother never spoke 
of him as dead, and never harshly. Proud and hard- 
hearted like me, he killed the gentle creature that he must 
have loved well enough to intrust with his name and this 
crested jewel.” 

She took from her bosom a little packet of letters, the 
cherished correspondence of those two hopeful years, and 
held them over the candle until consumed. Collecting the 
bits of black ashes, she scattered them from the window, 
and saw the last vestige of Captain Shirley’s bondage borne 
away by the wind. He had asked for freedom, and she 
had given it. “ So much toward complete renunciation,” 
she thought. The forced composure gave way, the pent-up 
agony would come, and, twisting her hands one over the 
other in acute distress, she wept as only a woman like 
Imogene could. Davie would have comfortably whim- 
pered herself to sleep ; but this sorrowing girl, fighting 
and disowning her sorrow, was of a different nature, and 
as she had stormily looked her misery in the face and defied 
it, she now succumbed to the returning wave of love and 
grief. The ship was wrecked, but she mourned the fair 


226 


WHO WAS SHE? 


pennant still floating high above the breakers, and these 
the tears she gave to its loss : “Oh, Philip ! Philip ! ” She 
covered her mouth to stifle the groan rising in her throat, 
and prone upon the floor struggled with her woe. 

The candle sputtered, a charred wick in a dismal, un- 
steady blaze, and waveringly went out. Darkness or light 
was one to her ; she did not miss the sickly flame. When 
the great sobs were exhausted, she arose, stood irresolute 
in the gloo'm an instant, trying to recollect where she was, 
and then drew up the curtain. The moonlight rushed in, 
and showed how blanched her face had become in the dark- 
ness. She disrobed in a hasty manner, as if just realizing 
the lateness of the hour, when, in fact, she did not know 
what she was doing. The curtain was still up, and she sat 
down on the bedside, utterly lost, and unable to define 
where the sobbing wretchedness left off and this drear apa- 
thy began. The truth is, she was almost frozen ; the chill 
crept upon her unawares, the drowsy numbness, and she 
was at a loss to know what ailed her. To recover her 
dazed faculties she commenced walking up and down, 
which put the stagnant blood in circulation and restored 
full consciousness. She was deadly pale, haggard, and 
shivering. The white night-dress, shroud-like in its cling- 
ing length — the tender feet, pressing the gaudy stripes of 
the carpet, perfect in their fairness as the sculptured limbs 
of a marble Grace. It was a frenzy of despairing pas- 
sion — the last mortal throes of love, and faith, and hope. 
It was a proud heart humbled and battling with its wounds. 
It was a strong spirit exhausted — an ill-used and most 
aggrieved woman, expiating the anger which, though just, 
she yet regretted — thankful for the blow that gave her 
the opportunity of returning a kiss. “ The blow I forgive, 
Philip,” she whispered, as if answering a question. “All 
injustice to me I pardon ; but I will never, never forgive 
the shame that you thought of my dead mother. No; 


WHO WAS SHE? 


22 7 


I ’ll hold that against you eternally.” She hardened into 
the girl who had maddened Philip under the hickory,' 
looking and acting as pitiless as then. “ The iron is in 
your soul, Philip Shirley, and there let it corrode until 
your ambition is satisfied. Both our natures are capable 
of infernal cruelties, and if we make our hearts a hell, no 
doubt we shall be able to endure the fire. I think delighted 
devils must howl approvingly over us, for we certainly merit 
their commendation.” Even alone she laughed ironically, 
and snatched the ring to her lips so savagely that the blood 
followed the fierce act.- “Twice have my lips bled to-night. 
This comes from the first wound,” she sneered. A drop fell 
on the ruby heart, splashing the emerald head of the viper : 
the diamond eyes seemed darting fire — the tongue lapping 
gore. The whole minute but perfect thing appeared to 
stir. It was only the action of the uncertain light, but 
Imogene held up her hand and addressed it as if it were 
alive, and as potent as the one Eve conversed w T ith to the 
everlasting detriment of her daughters. “ That is right ; 
warm into life, and hiss out the knowledge you possess and 
I would know. Oh, if these cunningly-arranged gems could 
speak, then mystery were at an end ! Oh, summer, will you 
never come ? France, land of my birth, how I long to press 
thy soil ! These white fields, the ghostly woods, the old 
brown house, I would leave them all ! Oh, my grave, out 
there cold and lonely, will it never grow green again? 
How long must I wait for the coming of spring ? How 
long watch for the flowers ? Patience, heart ! Mature thy 
wings before attempting flight. Let me think; let me 
plan.” 

The kitchen -clock chimed two, and with the last stroke 
she sighed wearily, and again took a steady survey of her- 
self in the glass. The moon was setting, and the image 
reflected was but a faint outline of white, overshadowed by 
a pall of splendid black hair. The motion that put it from 


228 WHO WAS SHE? 

her face was spectral, the loose drapery of the sleeve a 
phantom glimmer. 

“ Royal beauty ! ” murmured the poor bruised lips ; “ and 
he was proud and fond of it. I only prized it for that. It 
is queenly — all the dower my father bequeathed me. Good 
men will adore, and good women admire and envy it. I am 
wicked and heartless enough to protect it. It is only the 
good, and loving, and gentle - natured to whom beauty is 
fatal. A handsome face, a graceful form, gifted, well edu- 
cated, and without a heart. With these endowments I will 
boldly wage war with the world. Kingdoms have been 
won and lost for less. I ’ll peril it, anyway, on the hope 
of establishing my mother’s honor, and the bowing of one 
arrogant spirit. Fate will open the way, and then all will 
be easy. The conflict is over. See, spectre of the glass, 
how calm I am ! I can repeat his name without a tre- 
mor. 4 Philip, Philip, Philip ! Dear old Phil ! ’ I can 
even repeat it tenderly, and I ’ve not attempted the lesson 
before. Child love, child companion, dear — no I can’t 
bring my lips to say that word, it is too hideous a mockery. 
I dare not.” 

She lost something of her jeering manner, and came 
back to the softer mood : 

“ Gypsy is calling Phil ; don’t you hear ? Loving 
promises, whispered in dear old nooks, come fresh to my 
memory unbidden. Do they to you, Philip ? I am under 
the lilac, lamenting the dead. I am on the rock, owning 
my faults. I am running to meet you in the lane. I am 
resting on your bosom. I am slumbering in your love. I 
am Gypsy ; you are Philip ; not the fiends who struck and 
glared at each other to-night. My Philip died on the 
plains, or somewhere in those wild, remote regions. This 
fearful likeness of my darling is not him. We are both 
dead. I buried myself last night. I cannot analyze this 
second being. We have not been acquainted long enough 


WHO WAS SHE? 


229 


to be rightly understood. But I know I shall not droop or 
sicken. That part is for saintly characters, like Elinor. I 
came of a stock who proudly live through trouble, and bear 
their sorrows without repining. We rake the ashes over 
our desolated altars, and say there has never been a fire. 
I am stone — a little spot of affection left for Davie and 
Ruth, that ’s all. In the general ruin I have not lost 
gratitude.” She bent over and kissed Davie. “ She cried 
for me, and she cried for a squirrel. Bless the sweet inno- 
cent ! I wish I were as good as Davie.” Imogene crept 
into bed just as daylight crept into the window, so cold 
that Davie, even in her sleep, rebelled against coming into 
contact with such a clod. Genie was sensible of her frigid 
condition, and generously kept as far from Davie’s warmer 
latitude as possible. Cold and miserable as she was, Imo- 
gene’s eyes closed, with hands clasped peacefully across her 
white, young bosom, and face at rest, in the sublime won- 
der of sleep — a woman with a dead heart, a dead faith, 
and a dead religion. 

20 


230 


WHO WAS SHE? 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

DAVIE GETS A GLIMPSE OF CUPID. 

M OST women, after enduring the intense mental and 
physical inquisition that had marked Imogene’s night 
of cold and suffering, would have come from the ordeal 
wan, hollow-eyed, and spiritless, and feigned headache as 
an excuse to escape the breakfast-table; but not so this 
strong, indomitable girl. She was up as soon as Davie, 
and made her toilet with extra care. 

“ Is not your lip swollen, Genie ? ” carelessly queried the 
ever astute Miss Davie; “seems to me it looks queer.” 
Imogene quickly pressed her mouth with no gentle fingers 
to dispel the illusion. The action gave her acute pain, but 
she did not betray it by so much as a wink. 

“ Frost-bitten, I guess,” she said, lightly. “ I kissed a 
bit of cold marble yesterday, and it clung to me fondly in 
return for the greeting I trudged bravely through the snow 
to give it.” 

“ Did you go to the cemetery yesterday, when I missed 
you so long ? ” 

Imogene nodded. 

“No wonder you were out of sorts last night. Those 
gloomy evergreens, dismal sextons that never die them- 
selves, and snow-covered stones, viewed early of a freezing 
morning, would have killed me, so icy and pathless, and all 
the graves bulging up higher and longer than in summer, 
with a skeleton bush or flower-stalk trying to make itself 
visible in the centre. I was there once, and saw a frozen 
grave, dug for a frozen inmate, that the half-frozen sexton 
covered with frozen clods ; and since, I never attend a 
funeral in winter. It is different in summer ; but leaden 


WHO WAS SHE? 231 

skies, voiceless birds, and leafless trees make me afraid of 
death.” 

“ My mother is there ; but beyond the cold and gloom 
you fear.” 

“ I know it; but she was buried in autumn — in the gold 
of Indian summer. Don’t you remember that the late 
daisies were white along the way ? I do ; and you walked 
sedately with Philip, and I so scared that I dare not speak.” 

“Ah, yes! Philip was my comfort then. I was a child 
in trouble, and he was ever kind to children. I do not 
think he will ever forget my mother, or the day she died ; ” 
and that was all Davie ever knew of the wound upon her 
heart. 

Imogene, though not gay, was cheerful, and resolutely 
went back to her books, redoubling her exertions to keep 
pace with the new plans daily perfecting in her mind. 
The old motive had ignominiously perished, but that only 
made its successor the more imperative, and forced her 
benumbed energy into renewed courage, to keep on, for 
pride and duty’s sake, in the way love had first directed. 

Nothing was seen of Philip for two days, when he called, 
and sent his card to Miss Lee and Miss Vale, respectively. 
Imogene positively declined to see him, and Davie was 
compelled, much against her will, to do the honors alone. 
She was no little prejudiced against him since his last visit, 
and had privately rehearsed several very coldly polite 
speeches and attitudes for his sole edification, and which 
she now meant to bring forth with most withering effect; 
but the beauty and efficacy of this neatly arranged plan 
was entirely spoiled, greatly to Davie’s surprise and embar- 
rassment, by finding Philip exceedingly affable, and quite 
his old, unostentatious self again. 

After the first slightly confused greeting was over, he 
took a seat on the sofa beside her, remarking pointedly, as 
if he would have her accept it as an apology for his former 


232 


WHO WAS SHE? 


stately behavior on a similar occasion, “I had a long, 
rough journey of it, and was not sorry to see the Alden 
hills. I have not been very well lately, and the two have 
made a perfect bear of me.” 

Indeed, he did look wretched, and Davie's pitying eye 
sought his face commiseratingly, as if it might tell her 
something of his malady. Philip, on the contrary, was 
prospecting on anything but his personal ailments, shrewdly 
contriving, through the simple medium of her innocence, 
how he might ascertain all she knew of Imogene, correctly 
guessing that anything unwonted in her demeanor would 
leak out in Davie’s artless conversation, if adroitly led by 
so sharp a questioner as himself. 

“ Is Miss Yale sick, that she denies her presence?” 

Davie, guileless child, blushed scarlet. She could not 
tell a direct lie, and the searching look of those deep-set, 
penetrating eyes must be answered unequivocally. 

“ Genie is quite well, but — you must excuse me — I fear 
you frightened her by the — the rigid formality of your 
first visit. I don’t mind ; but she does not get over such 
things easy.” 

“ I confess myself a brute that day, and beg your pardon, 
and hers also. Genie is a proud creature, and for her dis- 
pleasure I may not find so ready a forgiveness as I have in 
your case. Does she go much into society ? ” 

“ No, indeed. There she puzzles and often pains me. 
Do you know that for the past two years nothing can induce 
her to dance. A nun could not be more circumscribed, and 
I doubt not she will be telling her beads some day ; although 
she voluntarily told me this morning that she meant to be 
very gay this winter, and renounce forever the old recluse 
habits ; so I have some hopes of her yet,” said Davie, de- 
lighted at the bare thought of Imogene’s promised gayetyj 
but if she had seen the sudden spasm that contracted Phi- 
lip s face she would have divined, perhaps, that he was not 


WHO WAS SHE? 


233 


so very much pleased with Miss Vale’s new determination 
as the revelation merited. He struggled to repress the 
darkling shadow on his brow, and with subtle suavity con- 
tinued his interrogations. 

“ They tell me in the village, where she is not much of 
a favorite, that she is a famous musician, unequalled in 
power and brilliancy?” 

The question instantly aroused Davie’s enthusiasm to the 
highest pitch of feminine praise, and, as regarded her on 
this occasion, inadvertent confidence. 

“ Yes, but no one knows it as well as I do. She plays 
the organ and sings in church, and that is all the village 
knows of her rare genius, for it is rare and wonderful, 
Philip ; and though it touches me beyond all other music, 
I can in nowise comprehend or describe from whence 
comes the sweet charm of Genie’s marvellous playing. You 
should have seen her last night. I am used to her erratic 
flights, but she amazed even me. Sometimes she improvises 
grandly ; but only in certain moods, when the spell is on, 
as she calls it. She went out walking two evenings ago — 
maybe I ought not to speak of it, but you are such an old 
friend I am sure you will not mention it. She only asked 
me not to tell mother,” hesitated Davie, not quite certain 
of the propriety of further enlightening Philip on the mat- 
ter of Imogene’s peculiarities in the present state of their 
alienation. 

“You may rely on my entire silence; I am not a bab- 
bler, and anything pertaining to Imogene is of the greatest 
interest to me,” gravely assured Philip, and so earnestly 
that Davie again became communicative. 

“ Well, as I told you, she went out walking, and the 
moment she came in, she threw ofF her wrappings and flew 
to the piano. I can’t begin to tell you, but it was the most 
madly impassioned thing in the way of music that ever 
intoxicated and bewildered mortal ears, and she looked the 
20 * 


234 


WHO WAS SHE? 


very embodiment of her inspiration. Genie said it was the 
Song of the Nameless, and that she could not sing it again 
for her life.” 

Philip abruptly walked to the window, and back, draw- 
ing the cloak that he wore loosely about his shoulders more 
tightly about his throat, to hide the something that seemed 
to stick there to the detriment of readily replying. 

“The Song of the Nameless,” he repeated, slowly. “I 
can well conceive the soul she put into the theme after — 
after — ” Philip, not accrediting to Davie much keenness 
of perception, did not take the trouble to finish his remark, 
indicating by another shrug and nervous pull at his cloak 
that he would rather listen than talk. 

“ Of a truth, Philip, she did put soul, and heart, and 
passion into it, and, singular as you may think it, right in 
the midst of it she fainted dead away. A face of wax 
dropped down to the yet sounding keys, and lay there 
cold as a stone, and so beautiful, Philip, that I stopped 
to admire and kiss it before trying to bring back its truant 
color.” 

Captain Shirley’s moustached lip trembled, for he had 
seen that matchless face white and stone-like, with blood- 
dabbled lips, and waves of black hair rippling in tangled 
beauty from a brow to which his hand had given the im- 
press of sudden death. 

“And the rest; what did you do?” Davie did not 
notice the quavering of his voice, nor the noiseless way his 
strong teeth came together and settled in his lip. 

“ Oh, I just sprinkled her plentifully with snow, and she 
was herself in a minute. She was not sick. It was only 
the heat of the room after her quick walk in the cold. She 
said so ; and complimented my sense in bringing her to 
as I did, without flying for help, as most simpletons would 
have done.” 

“You are the same dear, bright sunbeam, I see, Davie; 


WHO WAS SHE? 


235 


and as I look at you now, single-minded and blithe-hearted, 
I forget you are a young lady, and think of you as a little 
sunny- tempered girl playing by the roadside, without a 
trouble in life, save your conflict with fractions, and failure 
to master the three ground rules ; and I would have you 
consider me as graceless Phil, in ragged jacket and tom 
hat. Will you, Davie ? ” 

She was pleased at his touching allusion to the old-time 
reminiscences, and her happy face spoke how glad she 
would be to return to their childhood’s frank familiarity. 
To Philip her nature was as transparent as a limpid pool 
that no storm had ever reached, and into which no murky 
waters had ever flowed, and well aware that in truthful 
simplicity she would carefully repeat every word he said 
to Imogene. Therefore it stood him in hand to weigh well 
every word he uttered, that the more sagacious Genie 
might read their double meaning, and, in their sincere 
childish telling by Davie, be merciful to him. He could 
not believe that she would persist in their estrangement, 
and hoped much from Vida’s tender interest in his behalf. 

Resuming his seat beside the unsuspecting girl, he fixed 
his eyes, eloquent with that gentle expression, the memory 
of which was so dear to lame Olive, and now sent a warmer 
rose to Davie’s cheek, upon the smiling face half avoiding, 
half meeting his, and said, with a persuasive fervor that only 
Philip Shirley was capable of : 

“If Imogene is obdurate, you will not cease to, be my 
friend. I need a kind, gentle, sister friend, one who will 
be lenient with my faults and bear with my impatience. I 
have a dreadful temper ; you know it, Davie, and it gets 
the better of me sometimes, and, as I am a living man, I 
wish I had died before it led me into doing that for which 
I can never sufficiently atone.” 

“ I am not a clever woman,” said Davie ; “ and I am 
young to presume upon counselling a man brave and 


236 


WHO WAS SHE? 


aspiring like you, who has the world for a teacher and 
experience for a guide. I am not so competent of under- 
standing and sympathizing with your nature as Imogene. 
She seems fitted to naturally affiliate with a temperament 
peculiarly constituted like yours, Philip, and I should feel 
as if I had robbed her by assuming that which has always 
impressed me as being her special and absolute prerogative : 
the balancing of Philip Shirley’s peccable as well as noble, 
and, in many respects, inimitable and grandly heroic char- 
acter. I never wilfully committed a sin in my life, and to 
the casting out of Genie I could not be the friend you 
would wish me. You two are riddles to me. Imogene 
frequently hurts and alarms me by praying me to love her, 
when she must know that I do, all the sister I have ; and 
she so exquisitely beautiful that sometimes, when looking 
at her, I feel like falling on my knees that God has made 
anything so perfectly lovely. And she used to be so fond 
of you. It was her old saying, ‘I am fond of Philip,’ when 
she was little, and the girls tried to tease her about you. 
And then for her to go on so about being wicked. I declare 
it makes me sick to think of it.” 

It was as much as Davie could do to keep back the tears. 
Philip caught the hand that was making a furtive attempt 
to brush her left eye, and gave it what might be termed a 
jerk, if Davie had been a boy. 

“Wicked ! What did she mean by being wicked ? ” 

“I am sure I don’t know; but she maintained that 
black-haired people were all devils, and • that she was one. 
I never was so shocked and sorry.” Davie’s eyes filled at 
the recollection, and Philip resumed his walk to and from 
the window so hastily that the jealously retained cloak 
slipped from his shoulder, and showed his right hand in a 
sling. The discovery dried Davie’s tears, and awakened 
her ready pity and curiosity. 

“ Why, Philip, when did you injure your hand?” 


WHO WAS SHE? 237 

“Oh, it is nothing — an intentional accident.” He 
laughed ironically. 

“ I noticed you were chary of your right hand, but I did 
not impute it to a serious cause ; and not to mention it. Is 
this the sisterly confidence you would give me?” 

“ It is a miserable trifle,” and in your better conversa- 
tion I forgot the slight annoyance of a self-crippled arm. 
I am off to the frontier next week, and may never visit this 
place again. Crave my pardon of Miss Yale, and say I 
wounded my right hand in retaliation for its most cowardly 
crime, and that its blood stained the snow where more pre- 
cious blood was spilled. Don’t look so horrified ; in plain 
language, I hurt it against the hickory-tree.” 

Davie recovered her equanimity at the last comprehen- 
sible solution of his hurt, and fell back to her tenderly 
solicitous manner. “ Take good care, Philip, and let no 
more ‘ intentional accidents’ befall you, and come to see us 
often in the short week you have among those who have 
ever been kindliest friends.” 

“ Will Miss Lee be glad to see me as frequently as I may 
be tempted to avail myself of her invitation ? ” 

“ Davie will — always glad, Philip.” 

Her little hand settled argumentatively on the disabled 
arm, almost frightened, yet quite content in the liberty it 
was taking. Philip looked at it, but did not touch it, for 
he was thinking how another hand as white, and weak, and 
small, had slid from his sleeve in a tremor of anguish, and 
he could not caress this one, with the other a conscience on 
his heart. Davie was a stranger to everything like co- 
quetry, and did not for a moment anticipate receiving in 
return a loving pressure; but her own little heart caught 
the infection, and she began to think that there must be 
something very electrical in a young officer’s cloak. It 
was not disagreeable, however, only new and novel, and she 
liked Philip very, very much. Her pruriency to retail the 


238 


WHO WAS SHE? 


extent of his injuries, and the change for the better in his 
manner, was so great that she could not afford to watch 
Philip’s departure farther than the doorstep, and before he 
had reached the gate she was in the placid presence of 
the, at the moment, exceedingly studious Imogene. Davie 
threw herself into the nearest chair, and proceeded to open 
her budget, not the less spicy from her listener’s apparent 
apathy. 

“Well, if I have not been surprised! To think of his 
grandeur the other day, and now as meek as Moses — just 
our plain, old Phil ; and I to practise my stateliest for 
nothing. That’s what comes of forming your line of 
battle before you know the position of the enemy. He 
looks wretched, and says he has not been very well 
lately.” 

“ Not well ? ” Imogene was evincing more interest than 
she thought. 

“ No ; and pale as a ghost. At first he would do nothing 
but get up and sit down in a regular fidget, and kept his 
cloak about his ears like a man ready to start in a second. 
He spoke of you, and was so sorry that he gave offence the 
other day that I forgave him without his asking ; and it is 
really too bad of you to hold a grudge, and be earnest in 
not seeing him. I would not lay it up, Genie, but do as I 
have done — take him back to former favor,” urged Davie, 
slyly watching the effect of her appeal. 

“ I am not so forgiving, and abandon him henceforth 
to your kinder care. He chose to be unwarrantably arro- 
gant with me, and I choose to continue so ; and let me here 
implicitly affirm that I am never at home to Captain 
Shirley.” 

“ Now you are cruel, Genie, and carrying it too far,” 
protested Davie. 

“ Perhaps I am ; but, nevertheless, I have said it, and 
I will most sacredly keep my word.” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


239 


“You are too unbending; when he could bow his pride 
and feelingly confess his fault.” 

“ That you might repeat his excessive humility and peni- 
tence to me. Philip Shirley is a consummate actor, and 
you are not discerning, Davie/’ contemptuously returned 
Imogene, reading the young captain’s purpose in vesting 
Vida with his deep contrition. 

“ No, nor designing either,” retorted Davie, tartly; “and 
I will not see designs and deceit in others. I would be 
ashamed of such baseness toward any one, especially Philip, 
who comes with a sad face and wounded hand to prove his 
sincerity and the right to claim my sympathy.” This was 
the reserve shot that she had withheld in case Genie’s 
anger remained unappeased, and anxiously waited its effect. 
But she was doomed to disappointment. Imogene’s fea- 
tures were immovable. 

“A wounded hand is to be deplored. How came Philip 
to be so unfortunate?” 

“He hurt it two nights ago in some strange way con- 
nected with the old hickory. It was a foggy explanation, 
make the best of it. His arm was in a sling, and several 
times he appeared to be suffering a sudden twinge, and he 
looked haggard, interestingly pallid, and nervous,” con- 
clusively summed up the compassionate Davie. 

“ I dare say a military cloak and a hand in a sling are 
becoming, particularly to a young officer. Vastly engaging 
and pity-inspiring to a susceptible mind,” she sneered, de- 
risively. “ Pray, is his warrior arm considered to be dan- 
gerously mutilated ? ” 

“ Don’t be so hard, Genie. Do you two hate or love 
each other, that your dispositions are so materially changed? 
He gnawing his lip and laughing at nothing, as if it were 
a nice thing to get a painful hurt, and you making enig- 
matical fun of it, as if it were a subject of satirical ridi- 
cule.” Davie gave a thoughtful tap on the carpet with 


240 


WHO WAS SHE? 


the tip of her trim slipper, and, with proper stress on the 
obscure parts, gave a full and authentic account of her 
conversation with Philip. At the conclusion, Imogene 
merely passed her hand over her mouth and made a mo- 
tion to resume her book. Davie was in despair. “ He is 
going away next week, and may never return.” 

“ It is his duty to go, and his going or remaining does 
not enhance or decrease our happiness,” calmly replied the 
impenetrable Imogene. 

“You are too bitter. I could not be so relentless toward 
Phil, and you will regret it when too late. Mark my words, 
Genie ; you will repent when repentance is vain,” solemnly 
admonished Davie, sighing prophetically. 

Genie met the sigh sternly. 

“ Now, Davie, let me tell you, once for all, that it is use- 
less for you to attempt convincing me of Philip Shirley’s 
ephemeral virtues. I know him ! I am done raving, and 
will be no sycophant to a pair of glittering epaulets, though 
they do grace the shoulders of this incomparable captain. 
I am tired of these ceaseless panegyrics regarding one I 
despise, and his pathetic wounds and melancholy excite in 
me nought but contempt. I understand his motive for 
winning your sisterly sympathy ; and while I know you are 
blameless, I accredit to him no more nor less than he de- 
serves. Now you have my mind, plain as words can express 
it, and let this end the matter for the future. Judging as I 
do clearly, it is disagreeable and repulsive to me, and I beg 
you never to recur to the distasteful theme again.” 

Davie was utterly abashed and confounded, and, not pre- 
suming on further pacificatory advice, silently left Imogene 
to her book, mystified at the way in which some people 
misconstrue innocent intentions. 

After a great deal of pondering, Davie arrived at the 
conclusion that she was just a little glad that Genie had 
taken such an unaccountable antipathy to Philip, and, so 


WHO WAS SHE? 


241 


far as she could see, that the aversion was mutual; for she 
was liking and thinking of him more and more. His 
voice and his step were writing out the old story that 
Imogene and Olive had already learned and wept for. To 
unsophisticated little Davie it was a strange, sweet problem, 
that her heart began to solye and translate into language 
that is purely beautiful but once in the longest lifetime. 
And the watching and the waiting and the flutter of 
delight — the glad tumult of love’s half understood dream 
— Imogene beheld in anxiety so intense that it amounted 
almost to terror. Yet she dare not caution, lest the very 
warning should bring the shadow closer. " She will show 
me her heart when fully realizing where it has gone,” 
reasoned the astute girl, and Davie verified the prediction 
with a little judicious aid. She was frequently attacked 
with sudden fits of pensiveness, and, if Phil did not come 
during the day, was sure to be restless the entire evening; 
and when this was more palpable than usual, Genie gave 
her a scrutinizing look, and asked, pointedly : 

“ Are you happy, Davie ? ” 

“ Happy ! of course I am.” 

“ Let me put it in a different form. Is there anything 
in your thoughts that you would fear the dearest to know?” 

“Yes, one thing; not fear — that is not the word — but a 
hesitation of telling about a — a matter that don’t exactly 
concern any one but myself. It is a queer muddle I ’m in, 
anyhow, and I hardly know how to explain it,” stammered 
Davie, blushing and twisting in a vain attempt to get at 
the cause of the vexing muddle. 

“ Suppose I guess ? ” encouraged Genie. 

“ I wish you would, for I want you to know. The truth 
of it is, Genie, I am afraid I love, or am going to love 
Philip Shirley, truly, deeply, and with all my heart and 
soul.” 

“ Oh, God!” 

n 


242 


WHO WAS SHE? 


The exclamation escaped her before she could check the 
quick pang the confession caused ; and, covering her face, 
Imogene swayed to and fro, oblivious of the surprised blue 
eyes regarding her in wondering suspense. This exhibition 
of emotion was unlike Imogene, and Davie could give it 
but one interpretation. 

“ Do you love him, Genie ? ” 

“ I ? no! ” J'he proud, white face lifted haughtily. “ It 
is for you alone I am troubled. I would not think of him, 
Davie. A poor captain, with nothing in the world but a 
yet untried sword.” 

“ Phil is poor, but I don’t care for that. I ’ll give him 
all I ’ve got ; I suppose I am an heiress in a small way ; 
and — and — well, I don’t mind for his being poor.” 

“ He will always be away. You could not endure the 
rough hardships of a soldier’s wife.” 

“ But I could stay here with mother, and love him just 
the same. There is a deal of comfort in writing, and that 
no distance could debar me from enjoying.” 

Imogene blanched to the temples, pity swallowed up 
every other emotion; and, clasping Davie’s listless hand, 
she implored her to forget the man to whom her simple 
love was not, could not be, anything. 

“ Put him out of your thoughts, Davie. Philip does not 
care for you as you do for him. He is morbid, despotical, 
and a fiend in temper. He would break your gentle heart 
in a year, and laugh at the ruin. Keep it away from his 
merciless path, for he nurses a foul demon of ambition in 
his conscienceless bosom, and you will be but another sacri- 
fice to its rapacity. To men of his nature a wife soon 
becomes a wearying incumbrance — a life-long annoyance 
— a perpetual regret. His heart was never intended to 
shelter a dove ; savage and tyrannical, it has found its 
avocation in his bloody profession ; and a woman’s affec- 
tion, tender and meek, like yours, has no part in it.” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


243 


“You make Phil out a terrible fellow, Genie; but I 
would not be afraid to trust my life to him,” said Davie, 
incredulously. 

“He is a penniless subordinate; the sport of fortune, 
wandering from border post to frontier town, and no right 
to steal into your heart — a mean, unworthy object. You 
are not nameless, but he cannot — oh, what am I saying, 
what sophistry am I uttering? Oh, Davie, if you love 
me, let Philip Shirley go,” she cried, in frantic entreaty, 
clasping her dress in a wild appeal of earnestness. 

“ I love you best when it comes to that ; and if you feel 
so badly about my caring for Philip, I ’ll abjure him from 
this moment, and be guided by you. You are wise in such 
matters, and as good at advice as mamma, to whom I should 
have carried my heart as soon as I fairly understood its 
inclination and import toward Philip.” 

Imogene lowered her eyes, conscious that Ruth had not 
been consulted in the long reign this Philip had exercised 
over her, and, touched at the implicit faith the child-woman 
reposed in her, she kissed and cried over Davie in a man- 
ner that was exceedingly startling and incomprehensible 
for Imogene Vale to indulge in and her companion to 
witness. 

“ I am sure I don’t understand the cause of your agita- 
tion, Genie ; but I would not have you tfiink that I do not 
like Philip, for I do, and his mere step sets me all a-tingle; 
still I am not going to tear my hair or fall into hysterics 
on his account. And in justice to him, I must say that he 
never spoke a word of love, or intimated by look or tone 
that I was anything more to him than the rest of the world. 
The folly was of my own creating, and nobody to blame 
but silly me.” 

Davie made an heroic attempt to appear unconcerned, 
and even forced a smile, but it was a woful failure. 

“ He is only selfishly thoughtless, and will desist when 


244 


WHO WAS SHE? 


aware of the mischief that may accrue,” mused Genie ; 
and Captain Shirley was amazed by receiving a little 
twisted billet, bearing neither date nor signature, that said : 
“ Spare Davie ; you are not blind, and her happiness is too 
precious for your destroying.” 

Young Shirley was greatly startled at the plainly im- 
plied danger, and promptly determined to obviate any 
undue preference Davie might cherish toward him other 
than the simple child-affection she had always given him. 
Straightway he repaired to Mr. Lee’s, and met Davie’s 
warm welcome with his usual familiarity. Taking her 
hand, and looking kindly in* her sweet, upturned face, he 
said : 

“ I am going away to-morrow, Davie.” 

“ To-morrow ! ” The smile faded, and the dove-eyes went 
to the carpet. Imogene was right ; Yida loved him, and 
Philip hated himself that it was so. 

“I love you like a sister, and when I am gone you must 
write to me. Letters are choice blessings in that far region, 
and I would like to hear from this old place through the 
bright instrumentality of your pen. Will you promise?” 

“ Of course I will. If to write will please you, why, I 
shall be doubly pleased.” 

“ Mrs. Lee will not object?” This was a cautious hint 
that nothing must be kept from her mother ; but she did 
not need it. 

“ Oh, no,” innocently replied Davie ; “ mamma will not 
object. She is more likely to help me out with it should I 
run short of ideas ; and, perhaps, I may persuade Genie to 
add a line.” 

“ I am still out of favor with Gypsy. I wish I knew how 
to expiate in a way that would be acceptable to her,” sighed 
Philip. 

Davie shook her head in perplexity. 

“ Genie has taken a great dislike to a military calling, 


WHO WAS SHE? 


245 


and I presume shuns you for that reason more than any 
other. She vows you are inordinately ambitious, and will 
never care for anything but your profession, and value 
nothing but power ; that in the absorbing strife for pro- 
motion you will forget the nobler aims of life. Can’t you 
convince me, Philip, that she is mistaken?” The humid 
blue eyes sought his for a refutation of Imogene’s severe 
but well-grounded opinions. 

“ I have my aspirations, Davie, but I hope not quite so 
soul-destroying as Gypsy would depict them. I am a 
marvel to myself, and don’t know of what I am capable. 
Circumstances make or mar me in a moment. I can’t 
begin to fathom my own character, or how future events 
may mould it. I love power ; I like to rule, and stand 
above the heads of other men. But never mind, I can’t 
change my nature ; and as this is my last call, I must say 
good-by to Mrs. Lee.” 

Ruth appeared in answer to Davie’s summons, and be- 
stowed on the short captain a motherly hand-shake. 

“ Davie has promised to write to me, Mrs. Lee. I am 
off to-morrow, and if David will not shoot me for the 
liberty, I’ll include a kiss in my farewell, for it will be 
many a long day before I have the privilege again.” 

Ruth sanctioned the liberty. “ Good-by, and God bless 
and protect you, Philip ; ” and the little brown-haired wo- 
man hastened away to conceal the tears crowding unbidden 
to the soft brown eyes. 

Philip set his regulation cap in a peculiarly slow way on 
his close-cropped head, suggestive of having .something 
very important yet to say. Presently he looked up in the 
quick, smiling way common to his young days. 

“ Here is a kiss for Gypsy; my old love Gypsy; my 
star-eyed Gypsy; and this for you. Say I gave hers first, 
that she might not feel slighted, and pray her to remember 
it to the forgetting of a blow.” 

21 * 


246 


WHO WAS SHE? 


He took Davie’s astonished face between his hands, de- 
liberately kissed her twice, and, before she could reply, his 
firm steps were sounding beyond the maples. 

It is superfluous to say that Davie promptly delivered 
the message. Running straight to Genie, she unceremo- 
niously bestowed a rousing smack in much the same fashion 
as she fondly fancied Philip had recently honored her. 

“That is from Captain Shirley, and he has gone. I 
could cry, if it would help the matter ; and you won’t even 
allow me the poor consolation of talking about him,” rue- 
fully bemoaned Vida. 

“ Yes, you may,” graciously returned Genie. “Let me 
hear all he said.” 

“Now, Imogene, if you ain’t aggravating with your 
whims. Here only the other day you went on awful just 
because I mentioned his name, and here you are luring me 
into a repetition of that flagrant offence.” 

“ I have changed my mind since then, and am in a 
mood to hear all you may desire to relate of his final 
adieus.” 

“Well, to begin with, he has the roughest moustache 
that ever martyred a feminine cheek,” said Davie, rubbing 
her own significantly. 

“Don’t be childish,” curtly remonstrated Genie, not 
relishing Miss Lee’s flippancy. 

“ Beg pardon. He said, * Tell Gypsy, my old love Gypsy’ — 
accent on my — ‘and pray her to remember it to the forget- 
ting of a blow’ — emphasis on forgetting — and, as I am 
not an CEdipus, you must solve the riddle yourself. He 
made me promise to write to him ; and won’t I fill eight 
pages the very first letter! Phil gone — I can scarcely 
believe it ! The first and last military beau, doubtless, we 
shall ever have, and I did not love him, that is, irredeem- 
ably, after all. Thaddeus is my pet brother yet. Dear old 
Thad! I wonder what he would say if he knew that ‘the 


WHO WAS SHE? 247 

captain with his whiskers took a sly glance at me.’ All on 
my part, you know.” 

Davie skipped from the room gay as a song-bird, and 
Imogene felt perfectly easy regarding the impression Phi- 
lip’s ambiguous attentions had left on her heart, and that 
that delicate organ in the vivacious Miss Lee was not 
seriously injured by its brief tilt with Cupid. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

DAVIE EXPATIATES ON SEVERAL TOPICS, AND LOT 
COLBURN RECEIVES A VISITOR. 

S PRING came at last. May plenteously threw her roses 
into the lap of June, and ushered in the full summer 
without materially changing the outer aspect of Imogene’s 
existence. Shunning young people of her own age, as she 
did, she knew very little of what was going on in the vil- 
lage, and cared less. Davie was her sole gossip, and no- 
thing pleased that lively young lady so much as to arouse 
her curiosity to the degree of asking a question. 

It was a delicious June afternoon when, returning from 
the village, Davie dropped into the most comfortable easy- 
chair, and settled herself for a cosey chat. 

“First of all,” she said, drawing a letter from her pocket, 
“here is new T s from Phil. Shall I read it, Genie?” 

“ If you please.” 

Whereupon Davie slowly unfolded and smoothed out the 
letter, as if the delay enhanced its value, and gravely read 
aloud its brief contents : 

“ Fort Smith, Nevada, March 15 . 

“Dear Sister Davie: How are all the old-home folks, 
and how are the days passing with you? Happy, I judge, 


248 


WHO WAS SHE? 


by your last sunbeam of a letter. The leaves will be out 
on the hickory and the grass green in the lane by the time 
this reaches you. How ardently we used to watch for its 
springing up along the fences, and the warmer sheltered 
nooks — you, and I, and Gypsy.” 

Here Davie paused to wipe her eyes and glance at Genie, 
to see if she was paying proper attention. Imogene’s rapt 
attitude satisfied her, and she went on : 

“We were camping out last week, and I lay down in the 
tall grass — a wilderness of treeless verdure, a million stars 
overhead — and thought of you all at home. Loved faces 
trooped by in my dreams — yours bright and fair, without 
a shadow, and Gypsy’s just as I saw it last — as I saw it last. 
The sad regrets since, you can never guess ; and, but for 
your constant friendship, life would be almost desolate. 
But I will not be gloomy, and beg you ever to think kindly 
of Phil.” 

“A good, brotherly letter; don’t you think so, Genie?” 
said Davie, refolding it with nice exactness. 

" Yes, and I am much obliged for his polite remembrance 
of myself ; and when you write again, say, from me, that I 
shall ever recollect him as I saw him last,” coldly rejoined 
Imogene. 

“ I came near loving him once,” laughed Davie, “ and 
the alarming fact came near scaring you out of your wits, 
and turned your remarkable placidity upside-down. Phil 
took such extraordinary pains to call me his sister, that I 
mistrust he did not care for a dearer affection. Sister, for- 
sooth ! That expression completely capsized my love, and 
the frail bark has never righted since.” 

“ And well for you it did not, for in righting you would 
have found it more wrong,” replied Genie, the meaning of 
which was hopelessly obscure to Da vie, who lazily exclaimed, 
“Heigho! let us get up some sort of a sensation, everything 
is so stupid. No Thaddeus, no Philip, no Nestor, no Mars, 


WHO WAS SHE? 


249 


to enliven our dull sphere. Lawyer and warrior have both 
deserted us, and left us to pine alone ! By the way, do you 
know the Colburns are going to Europe next week ? ” 

Imogene started. “ Mr. Colburn going abroad ! are you 
sure? ” 

“Yes; poor Olive! her health is miserable, and Dr. 
Humphrey says nothing but a change will save her, and 
consequently they are off to foreign parts.” 

Imogene made no reply ; but a great purpose was born 
out of the knowledge Davie had carelessly imparted, and 
the hope she took to her pillow that night was fate’s first 
mysterious tracery of the way she was to go. 

“ Is Mr. Colburn in ? ” Sam’s aging eyes peered hard at 
the woman \vho made the inquiry before answering in the 
affirmative : 

“ Yes, Miss ; shall I take your card? ” 

“ No. Tell him a lady desires an interview.” She was 
closely veiled, but genteelly dressed, and Sam did not think 
it prudent to hesitate longer than was sufficient to impress 
her with his own as well as his master’s importance. 

“ When you are done staring, be so good as to state my 
request to Mr. Colburn.” The tone was not humble, and 
Sam disappeared with the message. 

“My master is at leisure, and will see you immediately,” 
was his gracious information on returning, and pompously 
ushered her into the member’s study. 

Lot Colburn pointed to a chair, but the lady took no 
heed of the courtesy: standing by the table in the middle 
of the room, and directly opposite him, she quietly raised 
her veil. 

“You do not know me, sir?” A swift glance from the 
steely eyes, and the member composedly replied : 

“Yes, I do. You are Imogene Vale.” She looked at 
him inquiringly. “ I saw you once, ten years ago, playing 


250 


WHO WAS SHE? 


by the roadside with David Lee’s daughter and a chubby, 
ill-favored boy.” She appeared slightly embarrassed at his 
unlooked-for knowledge of her. Lot noted it, and said 
kindly : “ What can I do for you ? I presume your visit 
is of a business nature ? ” 

“First, I must beg your pardon for my unintroduced 
intrusion, and ” — 

“ Which is not necessary, I assure you. Beauty never 
intrudes,” gallantly interrupted the member, with an ad- 
miring bow. 

“ Spare me your compliments ; I neither seek nor value 
them,” she said, a frown of impatience marking her 
momentary displeasure, which was not lost on the polite 
member. He bowed again, and she dashed at once into 
the object of her visit. 

“ I was born in France. A strange, adverse gale wafted 
me here when an infant, and here have I grown to woman- 
hood. Circumstances, which I cannot at present explain, 
have made the doubt of my parentage a fact that must be 
revealed. You are going to Europe, and I came to implore 
you to take me with you in the capacity of your daughter’s 
servant.” 

“ Servant ! ” Lot Colburn was confounded. 

“ Yes, servant — companion, it ’s all the same. I know 
of what you are thinking, but my pride is not of that sort. 
I am strong and healthy, and will serve her faithfully, nor 
scruple at the most menial task.” 

“You certainly surprise me, Miss Vale; but I am not 
averse to the proposition. Olive must have some lady to 
accompany her as a companion. I was just writing to a 
friend on the subject,” pointing to a half-finished letter on 
the table, “and soliciting his aid in selecting a competent 
person for the place. My knowledge of the kind required 
is limited, and my daughter’s less. I will see Mr. Lee on 
the matter, and — ” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


251 


“ Oh, no, no ! ” she cried, hastily. “ There are reasons 
why Mr. Lee, why no one should know of the step I con- 
template. I don’t want people, I mean some people, a — a 
person, rather, to know why nor where I go.” 

The keen, sharp eyes of the member fastened on the 
girl’s excited face suspiciously. 

“ When did you last see Philip Shirley ? ” He suspected 
the secret lay in that quarter — hence the abrupt question. 

She met his penetrating gaze without the falling of an 
eyelash. 

“ I have not seen, spoken, or written to Captain Shirley 
since he left Alden twelve months ago. The veriest stranger 
could not be less to me.” 

“ But you used to be fond of him. He told me so.” 

“ Did he ? How sublimely egotistical ! He was always 
a prince of self-conceit. I may have been partial to him 
as a child, but age wore out the old garment, and I long 
since threw it*un regretfully aside.” 

“Age!” the member looked at the young creature pity- 
ingly, and, as he had on a former occasion walked thought- 
fully up and down before the queer-featured Philip, he now 
meditatively paced to and fro before the magnificent I mo- 
gene. By singular chance both had come to him for their 
peculiar destinies — the boy to scale the heights of a lofty 
ambition, the girl to work out the ends of a secret purpose — 
to checkmate the soldier, perhaps, when half-way up the 
hill of life. It w r as a serious matter. Lot Colburn was not 
the man to treat a serious matter lightly, and dropped the 
mere polite for the strictly grave and determined. 

“ Sit down, Miss Yale. I will do nothing in the dark. 
You must be frank with me.” 

“ I will,” she said, taking the chair he proffered. “ It is 
not as you think. My sole object is to clear my mother’s 
fame — beyond that I have no hope, no wish. Mrs. Lee is 
no stranger to my intentions, and would not, if she could, 


252 


WHO WAS SHE? 


hinder or coerce my actions in this direction. It is not 
the purpose, but with whom I go, that I desire to keep 
secret.” 

“ But I cannot consent to your leaving clandestinely, and 
that too by my tacit sanction,” replied the member, shaking 
his head dissentingly. 

Seeing the gathering firmness of the fine-cut mouth, 
Imogene cried, entreatingly, “ Oh, sir, I beg you to listen 
to me. The search may be futile, then I must return to 
Alden, and do you suppose that I will leave so treacherously 
that Ruth Lee would not welcome me back ? I know her 
heart, and she knows iny nature. Leave to me the satisfying 
of those who are dearest, and have loved me best ! ” 

The tight-clasped hands fell pleadingly to his knee, and 
the beautiful eyes sought his in tearless supplication ; but 
Lot Colburn was not to be moved ; she felt it, and sprang 
up in proud defiance. 

“You refuse — then I go alone. You mi^ht have given 
me the protection such as my age and sex demanded in a 
journey of the perilous kind ; but I will not beg a right of 
any man. You put Philip Shirley’s feet on solid ground, 
and thrust mine in the mire. If it engulf me, will you be 
held blameless, Lot Colburn ? ” 

She rushed toward the door, her indignant eyes flashing 
back a look of mingled scorn and disappointment. The 
member stopped her by a peremptory grasp of the arm 
raised to open the door. 

“ You are as impulsive and uncontrollable as the day 
you dashed the squirrel against the wall. If I should con- 
sent to this hare-brained plan of yours, how could I excul- 
pate the very extraordinary proceeding to Mr. Lee, who 
stands in the relation of a father to you, and has the ma- 
terial right to hold me accountable for my share in this, to 
say the least, extremely questionable business ? And, aside 
from this unpleasant aspect of the affair, have you thought 


WHO WAS SHE? 


253 


of the grief you will bring to a happy home in suddenly 
quitting it, perhaps forever ?” 

“ Thought of it ? Oh, you little know what I have en- 
dured ! You cannot guess what a wretched failure I have 
made of life, nor what I have suffered in resigning the 
quiet home, though it be of charity, which David Lee has 
ever given me.” 

“ It is easy to see that you are not unacquainted with 
trouble ; but apart from the matter under consideration, I 
have no wish to pry into your secret sorrows ; and I will 
gladly give you the opportunity you seek of going abroad, 
provided you unreservedly acquaint your immediate friends 
with your intentions and the motive.” 

“ That cannot be,” she replied, decisively. “ I have 
thought of it long and calmly. There is but one way to 
accomplish my object, and that is silence, absolute silence; 
there are causes that make this imperative, and a further 
waste of words is useless.” 

“ But how were you to do this ? How avoid the com- 
ments of the village, and at the same time keep the fact of 
your going under my direct care a secret?” queried the 
member, knitting his brows. 

“I would have met Miss Colburn in New York, and 
thereby easily evaded all the idly curious and maliciously 
wondering tongues.” 

“Ah, that would place it in a somewhat different light. 
Still it looks bad,” doubtingly pondered the perplexed 
member. 

“Do not look at it, then,” quietly observed Imogene. 
“ I have asked, and you have refused. By playing the 
organ in church I am mistress of a little money, and the 
world is open to all. The only alternative left me is to go 
alone, and I shall do so.” 

“ But I dare not leave you to the rash alternative,” inter- 
posed the other. “ You look just the woman to keep your 
22 


254 


WHO WAS SHE? 


word ; and if you did, it would not be exactly easy with my 
conscience. Had I met you on board the steamer which 
sails from New York next week, and on which I have 
engaged passage for three, I would have unhesitatingly 
granted your request.” He gave her a peculiarly knowing 
smile that she was not slow to understand, and, overjoyed 
at her tacit success, gratefully kissed his hand, and with- 
out a word of thanks — her heart was too full — drew down 
her veil and passed from the room. 

He followed her, and at the great hall-door took occasion 
to whisper : “ I always stop at the Astor House, and the 
notice of the arrival of my daughter’s companion will meet 
with prompt attention.” 

A murmured “Thank you” from under the veil assured 
him that she heard, and down the marble steps that Philip 
had descended in exultant glee to grapple with the bloody 
fame standing midway in manhood’s prime went Imogene, I 
her hopes and thoughts and prayers all beyond the sea, and | 
the curtain drawn forever between her and the household 
of David Lee. And that evening she said to Davie, as 
they sat on the door-stone together, in the old girlish 
fashion : “ Suppose we should never sit here again ; would 
it make you feel very bad, Davie ? ” 

“Now, Imogene, I protest! Why are you eternally sup- 
posing and looking at me in that way, with your great 
black eyes gloomy as star-shaded pools at midnight?” 
cried Davie, hastily ; and her companion indulged in 
no more supposes, to the infinite relief of the merry Miss 
Vida. 

A few evenings later, when David came in from the 
corn-lot, fatigued and warm by a long day’s hoeing, Imo- 
gfciie took particular pains that his easy-chair should be in 
his favorite spot under the maples, and was more than ever 
attentive to his little wants and comforts. 

“Are you tired, uncle?” she asked, anxiously, removing 


WHO WAS SHE? 


255 


the old, weather-beaten hat, and running her soft fingers 
through his damp hair. 

“ Pretty well tuckered out, bright -eyes ; and what have 
my girls been doing all day?” 

‘‘A little of everything,” chimed in Davie, pelting him 
with moss-roses from the bush close by, and merrily fasten- 
ing a great cluster in his shirt-front, as well as a liberal 
bunch in his ample waistband, a ludicrous proceeding that 
did not bring even a smile to Imogene’s grave face. 

“ Goodness, papa, what a bewitching Flora you are!” 
laughed the gay daughter, frisking around her sire in mock 
admiration. 

“Or a queen of May,” dryly suggested the good-natured 
father, leaning his head against Genie’s caressing hands, 
but keeping his eyes fixed fondly on his child. 

“ Uncle David, I am afraid I have never been grateful 
enough ; I mean I have not sufficiently lived out the deep 
gratitude I feel for your long love and care of me,” she 
said, bending to kiss the graying locks about his temples. 

David twisted his head out of her soothing clasp to look 
at her almost reproachfully : “ How now, puss ! what am 
I to do if my solemn-eyed daughter continues to grow so 
self-accusing? Tut, tut, Genie! don’t pain your old father 
by such words. I ’ve had my great reward in your love. I 
could not do without my girl, that is as dear as the one 
skipping out there on the grass.” 

David’s strong, brown hand — how long she remembered 
the callous ridges in the hard palm — passed gently over 
the beautiful face, hiding its anguish on his shoulder. 

“ I am at my tenderest, most humble best to-night, and 
feel as if I would like to ask your forgiveness that I have 
not always expressed myself worthy of all the goodness 
you have bestowed on the beggar’s orphaned child.” 

“Well, if the girl is not clean daft! There, there,' 
Genie, I ’ll hear no more about beggars. I am not much 


256 


WHO WAS SHE? 


for petting you dainty bits of womankind ; I ’m too old and 
clumsy ; but bless you, child, I ’ve got a roof and love 
broad enough to cover their dear, pretty heads — plenty, 
child, plenty. It does beat all, that I, the most rough, 
awkward man in town, should have three of the neatest, 
slimmest, smartest beauties for miles around, in my house. ,, 
David stretched out his feet, conscious of his precious pos- 
sessions, and glancing sagely toward the cloudy west, saga- 
ciously predicted, “ To-morrow a wet day, and bad for 
hoeing.” Euth calling that supper was ready, brought 
David out of his arm-chair, and, as he was going, Imogene 
said, more nervously than hastily : 

“ Good night, uncle ; I ’ve been to tea, and shall not be 
down again.” Mr. Lee kissed her, and saw her go up 
stairs, and no warning voice whispered that it was the last 
good-night for many, many years. 

An hour after, Euth found her sitting up stairs by the 
window, where her mother had watched for five seasons tlie 
coming and falling of the leaves, when this thoughtful girl 
was a self-willed, imperious child. 

“ I am glad you came, Aunt Euth,” she said, equivocally ; 
“ for I have said farewell to the landscape, and as the 
morning may find us changed, at least in being a night 
older, we will say good night, as we would good-by, and 
remember each other as we look at this moment.” 

Euth was nonplussed for a reply, and as completely 
bewildered as Davie would have been under the circum- 
stances. 

“ What ails you, to have such morbid notions ? I wish 
you would be more cheerful, Genie, and less given to these 
singular fits of gloom,” chided Euth. 

Imogene did not reply, but she put her arms about her 
neck in one lingering kiss that silenced speech in both, and 
Euth went away impressed with the idea that it was her 
duty to ask of Imogene a full confidence of what was obvi- 


WHO WAS SHE? 


257 


ously preying upon her mind to the great injury of her 
health and spirits; and Imogene thought, “I have one pang 
the less to endure — the worst is over. ,, After this she was 
more herself, and tranquilly sought her pillow. Davie 
thought her fast asleep, until she unexpectedly dispelled 
the belief by saying: “ Put your arms around me, Davie, 
and say all the endearing things you can think of, for I am 
hungry for affection to- night.’* Then she was still, and 
Davie remembered these as Imogene’s last words. 

When two o’clock struck — she had heard every hour 
go by — Imogene arose cautiously, attired herself in the 
most suitable dress she had for travelling — a sombre 
brown, from head to foot — and cautiously stole down stairs, 
unbolted the kitchen-door, and was out in the damp, star- 
less night. The clouds, lowering in the east, presaged rain, 
and the drear atmosphere, chill and heavy, seemed to shut 
her in and press upon her lungs. Her breath came short 
arid quick, and her faltering steps could scarcely find the 
path. The gate-latch clicked back to its place, and Imo- 
gene was on the other side, the old house, a pile of black- 
ness, behind her, and the road, darker still, ahead. Once 
outside, she gave one wild look at the home she was leav- 
| ing, and rapidly began her walk to the village. Lot Col- 
burn and his daughter had left the day before, and she was 
I creeping away like a thief, to take the early train due at 
Alden at three o’clock, that most dismal of all depot 
i periods, neither night nor morning, when the most homeless 
and wretched are sleeping somewhere. This was the only 
■way she could baffle the neighborhood, and be in time for 
the sailing of the New York steamer. It was not fear of 
the night that made her shiver and sway along as if a 
deadly terror were on her track ; it was the inward misery 
I that shook her frame, and started the moisture on her 
forehead. The inky crown of the old rock loomed into 
view, with the hickory, grim and motionless, above it ; the 
22 * 


258 


WHO WAS SHE? 


memory of that woful scene enacted beneath its branches 
rose up so bitter that she shut her eyes and ran with utmost 
speed beyond its haunting vicinity. Ten minutes before the 
train was due she quietly entered the ladies’ sitting-room 
at the Alden depot, a closely veiled and seemingly a very 
unimportant and commonplace traveller of the female- 
domestic character. The room was entirely solitary. 

“A ticket to New York,” she said in a hollow voice to 
the drowsy agent nodding in the little office. 

The gentleman was too sleepy to notice the solitary pas- 
senger, and, gaping dismally, faintly thumped the dating- 
stamp down on the ticket as if it weighed a thousand 
pounds, pushed it through the window, received the money, 
pulled his cap over his eyes, and serenely resumed his chair 
and doze, presuming it to be some dissatisfied servant-girl 
going back to her German or Irish friends ; and that is all 
the wise ticket-agent could tell about the strange flight 
of Imogene Vale. 

The ghostly lamp flaring on the platform threw a long 
ray of wavering light across the track, and she could see from 
the dark corner where she stood great drops of rain sprink- 
ling the ties and rattling on the uncovered portion of the 
platform. She had just escaped the storm, and accepted 
the fact as a good omen. The engine came screaming 
around the curve, adding life and light and noise to the 
blank solitude. The agent reluctantly revived into con- 
sciousness. The train backed, whistled, and stood still ; a 
man in a glazed cap and a lantern, with his name on it, after 
the fashion of railroad conductors, helped her aboard ; 
more whistling, backing, and noise, and the train was again 
in motion. Faster and faster it plunged on in the rain and 
gloom. Imogene had never before experienced the pecu- 
liar sensation of riding in a railway carriage, and felt as if 
she were rushing headlong to perdition, and that the lantern- 
bearing gnomes were satanic officials employed to keep the 


WHO WAS SHE? 


259 


whirling line of swaying cars in perpetual motion. The des- 
tination of the Alden train was not so appalling, although 
it landed her in New York, amidst a Babel of clamoring 
hackmen. 

“ Astor House,” she said, selecting one of the least offi- 
cious of the vociferating herd, and, a moment after, Imo- 
gene Yale was rolling along Broadway. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


GONE. 


S David had foretold, it was a wet morning. One of 



those revengeful rains that beat earth in sheets, driv- 
ing fiercely against the windows, and dripping through the 
drenched leaves of the maples, soaking the grass-plots, 
and battering down the flower-beds — an uncompromising 
rain, that ran choking from the overflowing gutters, and 
peeped in under the doors, to the strong objection of 


Hetty. 


When Davie awoke, at six, she heard it pelting the win- 
dows and frolicking on the roof — a continual patter of 
drops chasing each other off the eaves to lose themselves in 
the general deluge. She lifted her head, rubbed her eyes — 
not yet more than half awake — and reached over to ascer- 
tain if Genie was asleep, or in her quiet way listening to the 
rain. But Imogene was not there. “Now, what on earth 
could have induced her to get up so early this wretched 
morning? Prowling in the east bedroom, I dare say,” 
thought Davie, sleepily turning over to renew her nap. 

“Where is Genie?” asked Davie of her mother, on 
coming down to breakfast and finding her still absent. 


260 


WHO WAS SHE? 


“ I am sure I do Dot know,” returned Ruth ; “ I have 
not seen her this morning.” 

“That is queer,” said Davie, thoughtfully, adding another 
lump of sugar to her coffee. “ It is so rainy she can’t be 
out of doors, and she has been up since six o’clock.” 

“What!” said Ruth, turning so sharply that Davie 
nearly let fall her cup. 

“ I don’t see the need of scaring one to death. If Genie 
does not happen to be up stairs,” said Davie, in an injured 
tone, “ I don’t know where she is. Taking a morning walk 
and shower-bath together, I guess ; she can’t do one without 
the other in this pour.” 

A horrible fear awoke in Ruth’s heart ; and, closely fol- 
lowed by her wondering daughter, she flew up stairs, mur- 
muring audibly : “ Oh, she could not, she could not leave 
me so.” 

But there on the bureau lay, address downward, what 
she was anxiously looking for, yet dreaded to find, an un- 
sealed note, bearing the simple words, “For Aunt Ruth,” 
in Imogene’s graceful chirography. 

“I knew it! I knew it!” cried Ruth, sinking, pale and 
shuddering, into the nearest chair. Davie picked it up in 
amazement, that gradually, as the alarming truth became 
clear, merged into deepest sorrow. 

“You read it, mamma; I have not the courage,” she 
said, in a frightened whisper, laying it back on the bureau. 

“ The reality cannot be worse than this terrible doubt.” 
Ruth’s shaking hand closed over the letter ; and Davie, in 
horrified grief, listened to its contents in uninterrupted 
silence to the end. It was short, breathing the spirit of the 
unhappy writer in every line : 

“ Uncle David, dear, dear Aunt Ruth, and loving 
Little Davie : When you read this, think of me at my 
very best, and forgive me. It is my mangled, restless 
heart — poor, treacherous, deceitful heart — you are read- 


WHO WAS SHE? 


261 


ing; and, if you can, pass judgment on its many faults 
lightly. Every one but you will say I am ungrateful, and 
have basely stung the hand that fed me. But it is not 
true. Oh, Buth, never believe it true, for I could kiss the 
very dust that your footstep had known. There is a hate- 
ful error of the past that forces me to leave you in this 
mean, secret manner; but in spite of it all, dear Ruth, 
you will not lose faith in me. Keep trusting, and say she 
did it for the sake of her slandered mother’s memory. 
That is the object — Elinor Vale’s fair fame ; and on whom 
but her child should the sacred task devolve? I am going 
to Europe as a companion to an invalid lady, who is able 
to give me all I need: protection, and the semblance of a 
home. You will hear from me there. For the sake of the 
grave in Alden’s church-yard, I would not have my sud- 
den departure bruited about the village. Silence babbling 
tongues as far as possible, Aunt Ruth, for my mother is 
there, and I would spare her dust further contumely. I’ll 
trust the love of my second mother in this dark hour of 
just suspicion. My heart is kissing you all good-by; and 
I know that to you, dear Uncle David, and sweet Davie, I 
shall always be Imogene.” 

The letter fell from poor Ruth’s trembling grasp, and 
Davie’s face grew white, staring at it in speechless grief. 

“I might have known where all her gloomy moods and 
sudden fits of affection were tending,” sobbed Mrs. Lee. 
“ Call your father, Davie ; he must know of this. Why, 
Davie, dear child, you are whiter than death. Daughter! 
daughter ! be brave ; for mother is wounded too.” 

The works fell on dumb ears. Davie had quietly fainted ; 
and in restoring her to consciousness, Ruth forgot for the 
moment the calamity Imogene had brought upon her and 
the great injustice done her long care and impartial love. 
The girl she had looked upon as her child had, by this 
wilful act, adjudged her unworthy of confidence, and not 
to be consulted in her future movements. If it was to un- 
ravel the tangle surrounding her birth, surely Ruth had a 
right to know it ; but Imogene had considered otherwise, 


262 


WHO WAS SHE? 


and Ruth was hurt into a moment of sorrowful indignation, 
that did not decrease when she saw Davie senseless under 
the shock that one cherished like a sister had dealt to her 
tender heart. 

Davie recovered her senses and her voice at the same 
time. “ It can’t be, mamma. Genie would not leave us 
so. She is too good and high-minded.” 

Ruth shook her head sadly.. “She is gone ; went like a 
guilty thing in the night. Your sleeping face w r as not 
powerful to restrain her — our love too weak to stay her 
will.” 

Davie’s tears began to fall fast and heavy, tumbling 
over her cheeks until the dimples were wet and all the 
smiles drowned out; but Imogene had seen her cry quite 
as profusely for a dead bird. 

David answered Hetty’s loud call. That industrious crea- 
ture, having by this time mastered the situation of affairs 
and passed judgment on w T hat she thought of Imogene, 
had betook herself to the dairy and there relieved her soul 
by sundry uncomplimentary mutterings that “ the beggar 
ingratitude was sure to come out, and that she’d not house 
folks till she knew ’em, and that she had all along suspected 
her sly and deceitful, and she never knew good to come of 
a face like her’n ” — which, as it was only addressed to the 
pails and pans, did no especial harm, and Hetty would not 
for the world have thus addressed a less discreet audience. 

On account of David’s hasty run from the barn to the 
house he was exceedingly damp about the shoulders, and 
the brim of his straw hat more curled than common, and 
the moisture of his heavy boots left little puddles under his 
chair that, in the present state of family distress, w f as un- 
heeded by the tidy Ruth. The farmer’s countenance per- 
ceptibly changed color on reading the letter, and looked 
blaukly from wife to child, as if they might possibly make 
more out of it than he could. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


2G3 


“ Well, wife ! ” — his voice trembled, and the large hand, 
passing absently over his shaggy head, shook visibly, the 
honest face wearing a wofully hurt expression — “ Well, 
wife, it’s a sad business; and how are we to reconcile it 
with the memory of the dead mother as you gave your 
solemn word to ? ” 

“She was always beyond me, David ; but I don’t think 
in my place Elinor would have been able to stay the tide. 
Her mind shrivelled to the one purpose of clearing up the 
doubt shadowing her mother’s name ; and, when she came 
to me praying me to tell her all I could of her past history, 
I was powerless, for I knew nothing that would throw a 
light on the question. On the contrary, the little I had to 
tell bore the other way, and, if anything, enhanced the 
mystery ; and I have no doubt it so impressed Imogene, for 
she has never been happy since. But, before my God and 
conscience, I did the best I knew how for the child, David — 
the best in everything.” 

“So you did, Ruthie — so you did; but the girl has a 
hold on my heart, and if Davie had run away it would 
hardly have cut me more.” 

Davie pressed against his shoulder, mutely implying that 
she would never be so wicked. “ Maybe it will all come 
out right in the end. Genie is smart, and knows pretty 
well how to take care of herself.” 

“Yes,” said Ruth, slowly rolling and unrolling her 
apron-string, and pinching it into little crimps betw T een- 
whiles. “ Yes, she is smart, but she is so remarkably beau- 
tiful that — that I shrink from the thought of having it 
exposed.” 

“Never fear that Genie will come to grief through 
her beauty,” spoke up Davie, briskly; “she hoards it 
like a miser, prizing it like something the dead have left 
us.” 

“ This accounts for her strange conduct last night,” said 


264 


WHO WAS SHE? 


Ruth, forgetting her recent indignant accusation of Imo- 
gene’s lack of duty and want of confidence toward herself, 
in recalling the clinging clasp of her arras, and the way 
the dark eyes had looked in their last sad farewell. 

“ She begged me to put my arms about her,” tearfully 
interposed Davie, “and I did, and — and she crept out 
of them unbeknown to me, and ran away — away from us 
all, in the dreary, lonesome night. Oh! I could never, 
never do that.” She commenced crying afresh, vigorously 
wiping her eyes and nose with a handkerchief that was 
already saturated by its task of constantly drying up the 
copious tears. 

“ Hush it up in the village, as the girl hints. I hate to 
furnish food for a parcel of chattering gossips to feast on. 
And now, wife, don’t cry ; we will swallow the bitter pill, 
and say it came from the Lord,” said David ; and not 
stopping to see if his advice was followed, he went back to 
the barn, with as heavy a heart as when the babies were 
severally laid in their little graves on the hillside. 

Not liking to meet any of his hands just then, he sat 
down on a plough under the shed, and for two hours stared 
at an ox-yoke hanging opposite, and chewed an oat-straw 
in a resolute attempt to believe that the greatest trouble 
of his life was from the Lord. He had shouldered it off in 
that quarter to console his wife ; but the honest farmer had 
his doubts, and was fain to think that some perplexing 
earthly cause was at the bottom of it. 

As for Ruth, she bent her meek head, gave the wanderer 
into God’s keeping, and had one sad memory the more. 
Everybody went about much as they did the time Elinor 
died, and the rain sobbed mournfully, as if nature would 
add her tears in requiem of the lost. 

Davie went up stairs with eyes red and swollen, and cheeks 
purple from crying, excitement, and sorrow. It took her 
several minutes to muster sufficient courage to peep into 


WHO WAS SHE? * 2G5 

the room where Imogene’s face would never again lift to 
greet her entrance. 

She opened the closed door ; there were her dresses — 
the ruby merino, with black trimming, that she had looked 
so lovely in. The sight of it reopened the fountain, and 
Davie’s tears again began to drop about here and there as 
she lifted one familiar article and folded another, not at 
all particular where they fell ; and then the bureau that 
they had shared in common — the three upper drawers 
were Genie’s, the three lower Davie’s. She opened the top 
one reverently — it was the most sacred of Imogene’s three. 
It was neatly arranged, just as her hand had left it. No- 
thing was gone but the mother-of-pearl box, the possession 
and contents of which had long grievously perplexed Da- 
vie’s keen curiosity, but which Imogene had never deigned- 
to gratify, and the square of bright worsted -work that 
Davie had finished the day Imogene met Philip under the 
hickory. 

It was like opening a grave ; and Davie looked into the 
drawer as sorrowfully as if Imogene lay within, mute of 
voice and still of feet. A spattering tear tumbled among 
the nice things; another and another followed in quick 
succession. They blinded the blue eyes, and she could not 
see nor speak from the crying and the choking. Her head 
ached miserably, too, and her temples throbbed, and her 
face was hot and smarting from the briny flow that had 
incessantly drenched it since morning ; and suffering under 
these accumulated ills, she threw herself on the bed, lulled 
by the storm, and soon fell asleep. That was Davie’s refuge 
from grief, and it was the most accommodating solace in 
the world, for she had the happy gift of wooing it at all times. 

When she awoke it was late in the afternoon. She was 
somewhat confused, and at a loss to tell where she left off, 
or to know what to do next. She thought of crying at first, 
but her eyelids were so sore, and it would do no good. A 
23 


2G6 


WHO WAS SHE? 


bright idea struck her, and she rallied instantly to a more 
hopeful view of the case, at least to the assuaging of her 
personal woes. She would write to Philip, and immediately 
sat down at her desk. It was a theme for the prescribed 
eight pages worthy of her prowess, and she sat about it with 
a will, interlining it and crosslining it with the melancholy 
facts of Imogene’s flight, plentifully embellished by her 
own private distress, and a promiscuous sprinkling of the 
general family trouble and sorrow at her strange going 
away. Although written in so innocent a spirit, and in a 
girlish, desultory way, it was a letter that struck the worth 
of living out of Philip Shirley’s ambitious soul. 

In a week Davie was almost as gay as ever, and had 
naively told Susie Johnson that it was lonesome to have 
Genie away, but that her heart had been set* on going a 
long time, and she ought not to complain, as mamma was 
satisfied that it was for the best. The little hypocrite was 
shrewd enough to assume that Imogene’s going was no 
secret to the family, although so profound a one to the vil- 
lage. Susie intimated that she would like to know where, 
when, how, and with whom she went, and Davie replied to 
Europe, with influential friends, and her business was pri- 
vate, connected with her mother’s family affairs. Imogene 
had always shut everybody from her confidence, until the 
habit had become proverbial, and “ as glum and reticent as 
Imogene Yale,” in Alden’s estimation, was supposed to infer 
the acme of reserve and unsociableness. David was not 
quite himself for a month, showing that he did not swallow 
the “bitter pill” so readily after all, and Ruth’s soft brown 
eyes never fully regained their old happy look of content. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


2G7 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

IN CAMP. 

W ELL, captain, there is no order to march yet,” said 
Lieutenant Murray, unceremoniously entering Cap- 
tain Shirley’s tent, and tossing his cap and riding-gloves on 
the narrow apology of a bed. A tall, muscular fellow was 
light-hearted Walter Murray, as social and good-natured 
as the captain was taciturn and hot-tempered. The young 
officer addressed sat moodily before a rude table littered 
with books and papers, deep in what did not seem to be 
pleasant thoughts, for there was a forbidding wrinkle be- 
tween his restless black eyes, and hard, fixed lines about 
the strong mouth that was not auspicious of happy mus- 
ings. The bluff, off-hand lieutenant annoyed him — why 
need he be eternally gay? it was vexing to see a man always 
rattling nonsense. Shirley twisted his moustache in sheer 
irritation, and answered curtly : “ No doubt orders will 
come at the proper time.” 

“ Proper time ! I ’d like to know what the colonel calls 
proper time. The Indians are playing the devil at Witman’s 
settlement ; butchering the men, capturing the women, roast- 
ing the babies, and burning the houses ; and, considering 
these mild eccentricities of the noble savage, I don’t think 
it just the thing to wait. If I have a hand in their punish- 
ment, it will be on the ‘no-quarter’ principle.” 

Murray was encroaching on his fighting-spunk in sum- 
ming up these late Indian atrocities, and looked fierce 
enough to wipe the last red man out of existence without 
regret or mercy. Drawing a tent-chair from under the 
table — one of the list kind, that accommodatingly shuts 
up and is willing to be stowed anywhere — the indignant 


268 


WHO WAS SHE? 


Murray folded his supple form into a sitting posture, 
crossed his long limbs, and, for a man not invited to do so, 
made himself quite at home. 

Everybody in the regiment knew Phil Shirley — that he 
■was violent - tempered, crabbed, and plucky, somewhat 
soured in mind, but brimful of fight, and never went 
back on his word. Murray was the only one the little 
captain was really attached to, and the only officer of his 
rank who w r as allowed or presumed on anything like 
familiarity with irascible Phil Shirley. 

The lieutenant tipped back in his chair, locked his hands 
back of his curly head, and gave his silent comrade a pro- 
tracted, meditative stare. 

“What are you thinking of, cap — the girl you left be- 
hind you? Now, who the deuce is she, Phil? I’ve often 
been tempted to ask you. Some fair lady of the North, I 
wager, with cheeks like blush -roses, eyes blue as the 
heavens, and. lips like dewy, ripe peaches. By Jove, the 
picture makes^ my mouth water! for, excepting greasy 
squaws, I have not seen anything approaching a wo- 
man these five years,” lamented the lively Murray, 
giving his chair an extra tip, and his limbs a higher 
elevation. 

Philip’s brow darkened, and, shading his face from the 
single tallow candle sputtering at his elbow, made no other 
sign that he had heard or was interested in the loquacious 
lieutenant’s conversation. 

“ Why in thunder do you let your luminary get so long 
a wick? Don’t you know it’s a bad omen — ill news, 
death, trouble, and so on through a host of evils, as the 
women have it? Where are the snuffers? I’ve a vein of 
superstition in me, and never like to see a candle-wick 
burn itself into a miniature cabbage-head.” 

As Phil did not produce the snuffers, Murray substituted 
his dexterous thumb and forefinger, and coolly pulled off 


WHO WAS SHE? 269 

the offending wick, resuming his seat and the conversation 
at the same time. 

“I say, Phil, wouldn’t it be fun to go a-sparking? Just 
fancy some dear little village -maid, rigged out in her 
best, waiting for us of a Sunday night. Blest if I have 
not forgot how to spark a girl! I would have to trust 
to instinct and my personal charms,” carefully folding up 
the list chair and restoring it to its place under the table. 
“I see you are not in a talking mood, and I’ll not bore 
you. The mischief is, you are so infernally ambitious that 
it crowds everything else out of your heart. Now, I’d give 
my commission if a little girl I used to know would have 
consented to rough it with me, but she could not see a lieu- 
tenant’s pay, promised to be my sister — humbug! — and 
married a rich old chap. God bless her ! ” 

“I never took to blue-eyed village-maids,” said Phil, 
sarcastically; “and I am vain enough to say that the girl 
I love will be willing to follow me to the devil if I ask it.” 

“ Deuce take them all ! ” replied Murray, drawing on his 
gloves with a jerk. “I’ll live and die a bachelor. The 
best of them are fickle jades, and not worth the offering of 
an honest love.” 

“ By heavens, you wrong them,” said the captain, look- 
ing as if he could kick Mr. Lieutenant Murray out of his 
tetot with immense relief. “ They are a d — d sight more 
loving and faithful than we are; and I have little respect 
for the man who traduces all women for the failings of 
one.” Philip was at swearing heat, and growled an oath 
that Murray thought prudent not to hear. Smiling down 
on the angry captain, he said, admiringly : 

“ I am glad to see you pick up the cudgel so gallantly in 
defence of the dear creatures. I was only joking ; but, by 
Jove, Phil, it was over a sore spot, though. Good night.” 
The tall lieutenant picked up his cap, and with it in his 
hand— the limited height of Philip’s tent did not admit 
23 * 


270 


WHO WAS SHE? 


of any addition to his stature — lifted the canvas door to 
depart, but suddenly- let it fall, and made a hasty dive into 
his pocket. “ By George, I came near forgetting ! Here 
is a letter — the Northern post just in and he carelessly 
tossed a daintily inscribed letter on the table, doubled 
himself through the canvas, and, to Shirley’s relief, disap- 
peared. 

“ From Davie,” he said, drawing the candle nearer, and 
breaking the seal. This is what he read : 

“Dear Brother Phil: This is just the saddest day 
that ever was. Rain, rain, rain, all day long ; and so it 
ought, for we have lost our home sunshine. Oh ! such a 
wretched, wretched thing as I have to tell you ! Mamma’s 
face is pitiable to see, and I could not help fainting away, 
it was so sudden and dreadful; and papa — you would not 
have thought that my matter-of-fact old father could have 
so trembled, and winked off the tears. I have not breathed 
it to any one but you, Philip ; and only to you, because you 
were once so fond of her that I know you will keep the 
secret for the sake of auld lang syne. I can hardly avoid 
crying from thinking of it, and have written in a random 
way all around the sad subject, without telling you the real 
trouble. Oh, Phil! Genie has gone away — left in the 
night ; and we don’t know where she is.” 

The letter fell from his powerless hand to the floor; and 
a long, low groan burst from his lips. “ Great God ! am I 
to be doubly tormented ! I thought her safe at the old 
place, and that time would soften her pride ! Gone ! Imo- 
genegone! Where? I’d give my life to know. I was a 
pitiable dastard ever to leave her. I should have made 
myself master of her actions, against her harshest protests 
and at every hazard. Curse the petty boy -vanity that 
puffed up my giddy brain into thinking I was destined to 
achieve a splendid military fame ! Exiled, like a criminal, 
to this cursed uncivilized country, to fight cursed ring- 
nosed Indians, who are not worth the powder it takes to 


WHO WAS SHE? 


271 


send them to perdition ; and for this I sacrificed the noblest 
and most beautiful on earth. She did not shrink from a 
lieutenant’s pay. No, by heavens! she begged on her 
knees, with her grand face illumined by the undying love 
she bore me, to be taken with me. ‘ Danger, poverty — 
anything, Philip, but our eternal separation.’ I can see her 
uttering the prayer ; a carpet of snow beneath her feet, and 
a flood of cold moonlight on her head — and she was mine ! 
Yes ! and by the Eternal, she is mine !” 

He struck his clenched hands together, and strode about 
the narrow confines of his tent in a paroxysm of self-rage. 
The unfinished letter rustled when his heedless foot crushed 
its neat folds out of shape, and he snatched it up defiantly. 

“I’ll finish the thing; it can contain nothing worse ! ” 
He seated himself in a desperate calm of forced composure, 
and commenced to read where he had abruptly broken off 
to anathematize his own conscience : 

“ She left a note for mamma, saying she was going to 
Europe to find out about her mother. It always worried 
her — the not knowing who she was — and I suppose that 
is the reason why she disliked going into company, as if 
it could reflect on her. Oh, I can’t realize that she is gone. 
Gone! what a dismal word! I never rightly understood 
its meaning before. I’ve been looking at her things — the 
books and dresses, the hat with the green ribbons, that 
reminded me of the days when she was your Gypsy, and 
her little gloves, with the impress of her pretty hand still 
in them. You remember Genie had the most beautiful 
hand in the world. It was like a funeral, Phil. I thought 
she must be dead, and that we were to bury her beside Eli- 
nor, as the last sad office of loVe. And I am afraid to 
sleep alone. I have divided everything with her from my 
cradle up, and now — now, oh, Phil ! I’ll have to stop, for 
the tears are blotting the page so that you will never be 
able to read it.” 

Several stains on the paper bore evidence that Davie’s 


272 


WHO WAS SHE? 


eyes had indeed overflowed at this point, and that she must 
have employed some moments in drying them sufficient to 
allow of continuing her epistle : 

“ Everything is so still, and I ’ll never dare touch the piano 
again, or listen to the church-organ ; for I am certain her 
ghost would appear at the slightest sound of either. You 
cannot guess how bad I am feeling, or how sick I am from 
crying. Our dear, dear, handsome Gypsy ! gone ! gone ! 
gone! The rain sobs it on the window-panes, the wet 
leaves whisper it, and the treetops nod it at me. Every- 
thing she loved persists in shouting it, until I am ready to 
wish I had neither eyes nor ears nor a memory of Imogene 
left. 

“ Something put it into my head to write to you. Of 
course you cannot feel as we do ; but as you once knew her, 
you may sympathize just a little with your forever poor, 
sisterless sister, Davie.” 

It would be difficult to tell how many times Philip read 
the simple girlish letter of simple girlish Davie, before 
throwing it on the table, and resigning himself to an hour 
of bitter remorse, the most harrowing that ever laid a 
brave, proud soul in the dust of self-condemnation. Davie 
had written it in the first moment of keen distress ; and at 
the disjointed beginning, Philip thought it was the death 
of a pet kitten, or some other dumb favorite, she was about 
to chronicle. He knew the sweet child was given to pre- 
facing her little home matters with a long preamble as a 
choice condiment to the sauce of the subject, and her inno- 
cent manner of relating Imogene’s disappearance added a 
greater poignancy to the blow. Suddenly he fell to hating 
the very sight of the smooth and inoffensive-looking letter 
that had cost unconscious Davie so many tears and sighs, 
and seizing it vengefully, he tore it into a hundred frag- 
ments. 

“ I feel better,” he laughed horribly, and glared around 
as if he had vanquished a deadly foe. “ I ’ll take a dash 


WHO WAS SHE? 


273 


in the open air, and see if I can’t exorcise this foul night- 
mare that is making a fool of me. I’ve got a shot in my 
heart now, if I never had before. Imogene knew where a 
blow would hurt the worst, and she has not hesitated to 
strike. The beautiful sorceress may count from this mo- 
ment the triumph of a complete revenge.” 

The distorting look that accompanied the words had not 
yet vanished, when the canvas was hastily thrust aside, and 
Lieutenant Murray, flushed and eager, sprang quickly in. 

“ Mount, my boy, mount ! Here are your orders, and you 
must be in the saddle and on the trail in half an hour. 
You are to command the advance, and here is the author- 
ity,” throwing down a scrawled bit of paper directly under 
the gleaming eye of the captain. “ The red rascals are in 
force, and there is a hot fight ahead.” 

“Good!” cried Shirley, springing up, and laughing so 
appallingly that Murray involuntarily recoiled. “ You are 
an intolerable chatterer, but I ’ll forgive it for the sake of 
this good news.” 

“ Man alive, are you going mad ! ” exclaimed the aston- 
ished lieutenant, stepping back to get a better look at him. 
“ By the light of this infamous candle you are literally 
sardonic.” 

“Am I? Then you know how bad I want to get at 
those murdering heathens. I am dying to spill blood ! I 
could hack the heart out of an enemy to-night, and curse 
him that he had but one. Hell and fury, lieutenant ! there 
are fifty thousand devils in me, all clamoring for a fight ! ” 

“ I believe you, cap ; and, by the host of Mars, I pity 
the red scalpers if you come up with them, for you look a 
very demon.” 

“ Then am I doubly armed,” returned the other, thrust- 
ing a pair of heavy revolvers into his belt, and buckling 
on his spurs ; “ and if I don’t do some bloody work this 
night, then my name is not Philip Shirley.” 


274 


WHO WAS SHE? 


“ But you are not going to wear that cloak ? Don’t be 
reckless, Phil ; life is life, and it is lined with red, a con- 
spicuous mark, and always reminds me of a gypsy.” 

“Of whom, sir?” 

“ Why, a gypsy. Ain’t it something like what the girls 
wear in the tableau of the ‘ Gypsy Fortune-teller?’ ” 

“ D — n the cloak, no ! ” thundered Phil, throwing it from 
him ; the hot, infuriated language keeping pace with the 
increasing blaze of the flashing eyes gleaming under the 
ponderous brow like living coals. “ What do I know of 
gypsies, or the mummery tableau of school-girls! Come 
on, or you will drive me into being more wicked than I 
am ; ” and, leading the way, the irate captain went out, the 
taller officer striding close at his heels in a maze of doubt 
regarding his superior’s sanity. 

Phil did spill blood that night, and in the darkness and 
desperation of that savage prairie fight, obtained a fore- 
taste of the splendid victories a long and fearful civil war 
was to lay at his feet; and those who witnessed his daring 
and ferocity that night said Captain Shirley was born for 
the army, and that he would eventually win the proudest 
laurels. But the speedy death he wished did not come. 
Bullets sang harmlessly by, the well -aimed tomahawk 
missed its mark, and the stealthy knife failed to reach his 
heart. Others fell, but he escaped unscathed, and was not 
thankful that he was spared. His life was valueless, and 
the quicker rid of the better ; he would expose it at every 
opportunity, and die fighting, as a soldier should. It was 
a species of self-murder, but he did not care. Glory and 
fame had sunk to nothing. Imogene was gone. 


Who was she? 


275 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

IN PARIS. 

B EAUTIFUL, fascinating, wicked Paris ! many miles 
lie between the gay, gorgeous, French capital and the 
humble Ohio homestead ; yet here we find Imogene trans- 
planted from the lowly roof that had sheltered her child- 
hood, to richly furnished drawing-rooms and the company 
of the great. 

Two young ladies idling away a morning in Paris is no- 
thing uncommon ; but when the two are Imogene Vale and 
Olive Colburn, we pause to contemplate them, and ascer- 
tain what old Father Time has been about since we left 
them on the other side of the Atlantic. “ Extremes meet,” 
is a trite saying, and they certainly had in this case. But 
to go back a little in our history. Mr. Colburn had said 
nothing to his daughter about the companion he had 
selected to accompany her across the ocean, merely men- 
tioning that the lady decided upon would meet them on 
board the steamer, and she need give herself no further 
anxiety regarding the matter. Olive was easily satisfied, 
and it so happened that Imogene did not see her young mis- 
tress until they were ploughing through the crested waves 
of the blue deep. Imogene felt that she was striving for a 
higher duty than the duty left behind, and there was no 
regret mingled with the thoughts of the loved ones that 
every plunge of the ship separated further and further. 

Lot Colburn was at her state-room door, waiting to pre- 
sent her to his daughter, who was enjoying the delicious 
breeze and grand ocean view from the deck, watching the 
sparkling waves rise and fall, as she had watched the form- 
ing and breaking bubbles of the fountain. 

“ Olive, this is Miss Vale, the lady engaged, I trust, for 


276 


WHO WAS SHE? 


your mutual pleasant companionship. My daughter, Miss 
Vale” 

Olive extended her hand, and the member handed a 
chair, both of which Imogene took, the one in warmest 
gratitude, the other from sudden dizziness, and a queer 
sensation, as if the sea did not agree with the tranquillity 
of *her physical organization. It passed away, however, 
without further unpleasant demonstrations ; but Imogene 
did not seem disposed to converse. Persons at sea for the 
first time are not expected to be animated and interesting 
during the nauseating initiation of old Neptune’s rules, 
and Miss Vale was not loath to avail herself of the privi- 
lege, and, leaning her head against the cushion of her 
chair, gazed off across the heaving billows, unconscious of 
everything but that she was sailing toward the land of her 
birth. The few passengers who had not succumbed to sea- 
sickness cast admiring glances in her direction, sauntering 
along the guards to get a better view of the dark, exquisite 
face, with its crown of lustrous hair and half-closed eyes of 
liquid light. Olive looked at her in wonder. It was the 
most beautiful countenance she ever beheld; she had 
dreamed of pictured beauty, and this was like it. The 
rich, tropical complexion and languid air gave her the 
charm of some rare old painting, gazing out upon a sum- 
mer sea in a sublime repose of form and mind. 

“Vale! where have I heard the name before?” mused 
Olive. 

Her thoughts went backward to the dear Western home. 
She was sitting under the willow by the fountain, a boy 
lieutenant by her side, who sketched a portrait in the spray, 
with eyes and hair like the girl’s before her. Leaning for- 
ward, she touched the passive white hand: 

“ You are Imogene Vale?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And from Alden ? ” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


277 


“Yes” 

“You know Philip Shirley?” 

“Yes.” 

The laconic affirmatives were uttered without turning 
her head or lifting her eyes from the turbulent water. 

They were quite alone — Lot Colburn, at a little distance, 
bending in a preoccupied revery over the rail, and the pas- 
sengers, either singly or in groups, intent on their personal 
comfort or pleasure. The leaves of the open book in Olive’s 
lap, idly turned by the wind, rustled back and forth in a 
dreamy, sense-lulling way, but she did not hear it. Olive 
was pondering on the past, and, as if there had been no 
pause in the conversation, resumed : 

“ I knew you from his description. Philip told me once 
that if I 4 had never seen Imogene Yale, I had never seen a 
beautiful girl in all my life ; and I am now convinced that 
he was right.” 

“Captain Shirley is far too prodigal of his compliments.” 

Olive did not detect the covert sneer in the equivocal 
reply: 

“I do not think so. No one less a judge could say 
otherwise. If my questions seem impertinent, you will for- 
give them, for, although comparatively strangers, we are 
to be friends. And I hope you will like me as well as I 
know I shall like you.” 

“ I feel deeply honored by your confidence, and to serve 
you will be both a duty and a pleasure. I am in your 
service, Miss Colburn, and only anxious to please you.” 

“ Then I will put your sincerity to immediate test, and 
implore you to call me plain Olive, for I am goi^g to call 
you Imogene from this moment.” 

Genie smiled, and a good deal of the coldness melted out 
of her voice. 

“I shall more than like you ; I shall love you, Olive.” 

The dark eyes left the sea and came full and tender to 
24 


278 


WHO WAS SHE? 


the wan, childish face, lighted up by the flitting prettiness 
of sudden joy, that an instant after filled the steel-gray eyes 
with as sudden tears. 

“ I am a poor, little, lame creature, almost a child in 
stature, and, I fear, in mind. I am not cross, but some- 
times, when the pain is severe, I am so petulant and fretful 
that I don’t know what to do with myself ; and now you 
know the worst of me, Imogene.” 

“And I am quick-tempered, unyielding, and not over- 
social. I do not wear my heart on my sleeve, and whatso- 
ever burdens I have I bear them alone. I face my trials 
firmly, and, if I have lost the woof of happiness, I have 
gathered up the remaining threads whereon to build a bet- 
ter and a surer hope. It is best to be frank at the begin- 
ning. My being here may have struck you as singular, 
and what I am about to say may seem more so. It is my 
earnest wish that every one in Alden, and especially Philip 
Shirley, should know absolutely nothing of where I am. 
I am not a capricious woman, and you will believe me 
when I say it is essential to my peace and the success of 
my mission ; for I have an object in visiting Europe, which 
is known to Mr. Colburn, and who, at my urgent request, 
permitted me to become his daughter’s companion. And 
you will keep my secret, nor think the less of me, Olive ? ” 

“ Not a whit the less, Imogene. And your secret is safe 
with me. But you were such sworn friends, you and Phi- 
lip, that it — it makes me a little curious.” 

“ I was a child then, and of all the world I detest Philip 
Shirley most. He dared to reproach me with my mother’s 
memory. You knew her history, Olive ; it is the common 
property of Alden. He meanly and cowardly threw it in 
my teeth — talked of love and taunted me of my low birth 
in the same breath. Slandered my dead mother, and with 
the base falsehood on his lips, would have kissed me. Do 
you wonder I hate his viperous memory, and despise his 


WHO WAS SHE? 


279 


very name ? It is that mother’s vindication I seek, and 
the clearing up of all mystery clinging to me. Philip 
Shirley is a villain !” 

“ And I am sorry,” said Olive. “ Papa says he will be a 
great soldier, and I — I like him.” 

Imogene looked at her suspiciously. “You do? Then 
I pity you. I pity every one — every woman — who likes 
Philip Shirley.” 

Olive winced, and thought, “Imogene hates him, but 
is there any need or cause of my doing so ? I may get 
strong. Papa has unbounded faith in him, and I — he 
may not be so far from me, after all.” It was selfish, but 
it was human, and in her heart. It was like a woman, and 
Olive was a woman, and the cloud to Imogene was a ray of 
sunshine to her. She repented the next minute, ashamed 
of rearing her air-castle on the ruins of another’s, and 
shyly asked: “But you loved him once?” 

“Perhaps I did, but it was a derision of love. He 
laughed it to scorn, and I disowned it. We will speak of 
something else.” 

This was conclusive, and Olive immediately changed 
the subject. 

“ You are very accomplished, so I have heard the village 
people say.” 

“ I play well, and read French fluently. I mention the 
latter that you may avail yourself of it in reading together 
on board. If you are not sufficiently acquainted with the 
language to admit of ready conversation, it will be of great 
help to you.” 

“How thoughtful of you! I am a very indifferent 
French scholar, indeed ; and I will be glad to brush up 
what little I do know before arriving at Paris. I have 
always had such wretched health that study, and every- 
thing else, has been difficult and laborious ; not a pleasure, 
as with you. Papa fancies that a protracted residence 


280 


WHO WAS SHE? 


abroad will vastly benefit me, but I don’t entertain such 
very sanguine hopes from a change of scene and climate.’ 

Olive glanced doubtingly at her thin hands, and sighed 
reflectively. 

“ I am inclined to think with your father,” said Genie, 
cheerfully. 

“ I don’t know ; perhaps you are right,” she replied, 
slowly closing the book. “ If you will help me to my state- 
room, I’ll get the French books. I was wise enough to 
place them handy before starting, and if you are not afraid 
of becoming sea-sick, we will read an hour.” 

Genie hastened to adjust the crutches, looking the pity 
she felt. 

“ There, now, you are pitying me ; I see it in your face,” 
said Olive, in playful sadness. 

And, for answer, Imogene kissed the little hand clinging 
to the silver-banded crutch. 

Once established in Paris, Olive’s health rapidly im- 
proved, to her own wonder, and the untold delight of her 
father and Imogene, who watched and cared for her, men- 
tally and physically, with the untiring devotion of a sister. 
A fall in her childhood had resulted in an incurable hip 
complaint, and the many physicians consulted at home had 
unanimously agreed that there was no help for poor Olive’s 
painful lameness. But in spite of their wise decisions, here 
in Paris, under the best medical treatment, Miss Colburn 
was actually improving. She treated Imogene more as a 
dear sister than a hired companion, and they sang and 
played and read together, enjoying life to the full, and 
making the most of what happiness a bitter disappointment 
had left to the one, and long sickness to the other. 

But Imogene never lost sight of the one deep object of 
her soul. A year, two, three, five passed — still it was only 
a shadow, a dream as intangible as when first conceived. 
Twice a year she wrote to Ruth, entering into no details; 


WHO WAS SHE? 


281 


simply dating it “Paris,” and ending “ unsuccessful yet, 
Aunt Ruth, but not despairing.” 

One evening, Lot Colburn entered the drawing-room 
where Olive and Imogene sat quietly sewing, with a bundle 
of New York papers in his hand, and wearing a counte- 
nance of exceeding perturbation. “ Dreadful news from 
home, ladies. Civil war is proclaimed in America. The 
whole United States are in arms. The rebels have cap- 
tured Fort Sumter. Virginia has repudiated the old flag; 
every Slave State is in open rebellion ; and a hundred thour 
sand Yankees are marching to the South.” 

“ Civil war ! ” Imogene echoed the words involuntarily. 
Of the marching hosts she saw but one, and him she hated. 
Yet to her perverse heart he comprised the Union army. 
Olive was completely overwhelmed. “ How can the South 
be so unwise ? ” 

“ Unwise ; they are wicked, obstinate con — ” the precise 
member al most swore — “ fools ! If I were ten years younger 
I would take a musket and step into the ranks to help 
teach them a lesson.” 

“ What will be the result ? ” asked Olive, timorously. 

“Result! why, the South will be annihilated, slavery 
torn up by the roots, and every man of wealth or position 
who takes part in it irredeemably ruined.” Lot could 
have made a tremendous speech if he had had the floor, and 
audience to do it justice. His patriotism was all aflame, 
and he felt strongly inclined to hurl his loyal opinions at 
somebody, if it were only two amazed girls. “ But if I am 
too old to go myself, I have a sturdy substitute in the field, 
who will fight till the old flag floats over Sumter again,” 
cried the member, triumphantly. “You will find Shirley 
on the right side ; he will never desert the cause / love, nor 
betray the country that educated him to defend her in the 
hour of peril. Little Captain Phil has now a chance to 
distinguish himself. I remember he said that all he asked 
24 * 


282 


WHO WAS SHE? 


of the United States was plenty of tough old fights, and 
now methinks he will get it to the utmost of his desires.” 

“ Captain Shirley : we shall find him in the hottest of 
the struggle, fighting, and, if need be, dying bravely,” said 
Olive, glancing covertly at Imogene, whose face was as 
serene as a summer morning. Mr. Colburn went out to 
talk it over with a few particular friends ; and, after he 
was gone, she said lightly, more to test Imogene’s real feel- 
ings toward Philip than anything else, “ This is a dreadful 
budget of most unwelcome news for papa to leave with us, 
and I suppose that, like loyal Americans and true, we must 
commence practising patriotic airs. But how fearful to 
know that they are actually fighting, brother against bro- 
ther, in dear old Yankee-land. My heart is with the blue, 
and here is to the loyal North;” and sitting down to the 
piano, she began playing “ Hail Columbia,” Genie joining 
in the chorus from her seat at the centre-table, diligently 
plying her needle meanwhile, the marked serenity and 
industry of which plainly indicated that Olive’s innocent 
little ruse had failed, and that Imogene was not to be taken 
off her guard. 

Every foreign mail was anxiously watched for, and the 
arrival of the New York steamer a most important event 
to at least three Americans in Paris. The sound of her 
father’s step in the hall put Olive all in a flutter of dread, 
for on such occasions he was sure to be the avant-coureur of 
bloody tidings, disastrous or otherwise, of the war. One 
day he came in more elated than usual. “ It is looking 
brighter for the Union than at last accounts. Phil is 
coming up from the obscurity of the border like a young 
lion. He is at the head of a fine regiment, and pushing 
through the western part of the Confederacy like an ava- 
lanche, and, if not hampered, his promotion will be rapid 
and his victories decisive ; for on a field of his own he will 
be the hardest kind of an officer to whip. And to show 


WHO WAS SHE? 


283 


you how he remembers and keeps his word, I will open the 
package that I have in the hall. Bring it in, Sam!” 
This was to the waiting servant outside, the identical Alden 
Sam, who had first piloted Philip to the member’s study. 
Sam obeyed, and, surrounded by the wondering Olive, the 
attentive Imogene, and the delighted honorable, the pack- 
age was brought in, and a stand of shot-and-shell-torn 
rebel colors brought to view. On one of the largest of the 
three tattered battle-flags was pinned a scrap of paper : 

“On the Field, before the Enemy. 

“ I promised to send my first colors to you, and here they 
are. Phil. Shirley.” 

It was a proud moment for Lot Colburn, and he shook 
out the ragged banners as exultingly as if a son had cap- 
tured them. Olive handled the dust-and-powder-begrimed 
silk caressingly, and thought, “Genie is mistaken. He 
is not a villain — a man so thoroughly brave cannot be, 
He may have erred, but Philip Shirley is not a villain ! ” 

Imogene was not looking at the flags, but holding the 
scrap of paper in her hand so tenderly that you might 
have thought it an imprisoned butterfly. Discovering 
shrewd little Miss Colburn’s cautious glance, she said indif- 
ferently : “ Keep this, Olive ; Colonel Shirley will be great, 
and in the future you may be proud of this hasty scrawl.” 

“ I love my friends better than myself, and bestow it on 
you, Imogene — the dear -prized souvenir of a gallant 
soldier.” 

“ No,” said Imogene, placing it lingeringly on the table. 
“ He will never be great to me ; I admired him most in a 
shabby jacket, and the glitter of a uniform has no charm.” 

Olive laughed skeptically, and tossed the paper into her 
workbox. 

Three years went by, and still the terrible conflict raged 
in America. Bloody details of the awful carnage swept 


284 


WHO WAS SHE? 


over the sea, and penetrated the bright, luxurious room 
where Olive and her companion watched from afar the 
progress of the Union armies. Again and again up and 
down the long columns of the killed, wounded, and miss- 
ing scanned the black eyes, and the blue, each searching 
for a name that they prayed God was not there. They 
knew that Philip had won his general’s star, and, in com- 
mand of a division, was laying waste Virginia. Utter 
death and desolation followed his army, and where he 
struck he conquered. 

One evening, Olive sought the ominous column, and read 
aloud to the placidly interested Imogene : “ Terrible slaugh- 
ter! Colonel Murray, of General Shirley’s staff, severely 
wounded. The most desperate battle of the war ! Fifteen 
thousand killed ! General Shirley mortally wounded ” — 

“ Oh ! ” Imogene half rose from her chair, and fell back 
again, as if a shot had struck her heart. Her face might 
have been a stone for all the look of life it had. Both 
quick-raised hands fell helpless to her lap, a blue shade 
crept to the parted lips, the great black eyes, -wide open, 
dilated, and fixed, were like the expressionless eyes of the 
dead. 

It was early evening, and the gas-jets overhead lit up the 
appalling countenance to a ghastly white brilliancy, bath- 
ing in softest light each pallid feature, and the still corpse- 
like figure. Olive was shocked out of all notice of Imogene, 
her face blanching to ashes, with transfixed eyes, that would 
not leave the name, that she fancied was getting larger and 
larger, and spreading all over the paper in letters of blood. 

“ Poor, brave-hearted Philip ! ” she sobbingly whispered. 
“And to be mortally wounded, wors^ than killed, bleed- 
ing — dying on the trampled field.” 

“ It is a lie ! ” shrieked Imogene, snatching the paper 
from her hands, and tearing it into fragments. “A detest- 
able lie ! In the face of my country’s great calamity, in 


WHO WAS SHE? 


285 


the hour of America’s utmost danger, and greatest need, 
Death dove not strike down Philip Shirley. He was born 

to free enslaved millions, and save the struggling North 

to sustain the right, and crush treason ! He was born to 
command, to fight, and conquer, but not to die, as this 
would have.” 

She turned proudly, and left the room. A portion of the 
torn paper touched her flowing robe, and slightly rustled 
as it swept over it. She lifted her dress as if the harmless 
fragments were imbrued with a deadly poison. 

“A new version of a strange soul,” was Olive’s comment 
when alone, astounded at her vehement display of temper. 
“ Oh, no ; she did not love him ! She hated Philip ! Oh! 
my heart ; she neither loves nor hates him — she worships 
him ; and my little presumptuous flame must flicker out 
before this stronger, sublimer blaze. Yet I am getting so 
well, and not so lame ; and I thought — ah, the dream was 
sweet, and I weep, I weep for it, Philip ; and you are dead, 
and you will never know how I have loved you.” 

Olive laid so quiet among the cushions on the sofa that 
you might have supposed her sleeping, but the hand under 
her cheek was wet with tears. 

In her room, Imogene w T as pacing like a caged lioness; 
no tears nor sighs for her, no abject prostration. She con- 
fronted her misery boldly, and talked to it as if it were a 
thing distinct from herself and capable of understanding. 

“ We were separated forever; but while you were in the 
world, Philip, the world was not quite so dark. Why am 
I left to smite the air and almost hate existence? O 
heart! will you never cease struggling? Break, die, any- 
thing that will bring forgetfulness. O love! will you 
never stay buried, or is it that Philip is dead you revive 
again ? ” 

A subdued rap, and Olive’s voice without the door re- 
stored her self-command sufficiently to open it. 


286 


WHO WAS SHE? 


“ Oh, Imogene, do let me come in ! It was a false report. 
Papa just came with later news of the battle.” 

“ I did not believe it.” 

“ But it gave you a dreadful turn, as well as myself.” 

“ I told you I had a hasty temper.” 

“ Don’t summon the hard look, Imogene. I know you 
now, and judge something of your heart by my own.” Olive 
kissed her in Davie’s little, purring fashion. “And I would 
not strive for the old assumption of indifference. Philip has 
not lived out his destiny. God is guarding him for some good 
purpose. We will thank Him for the great victory he has 
won, for it facilitates Sherman’s proud march to the sea, and 
brings yet nearer the wings of hovering peace. And as we are 
rid of that horrid newspaper incubus, I suppose I may say 
that papa insists on dragging us to the court ball next week ; 
and as there is no help for it, we must make up our minds 
to endure the infliction. I am sure I hardly know how to 
reflect about a dress after such a scare.” 

“ I shall not honor mine with any great amount of soli- 
citude,” replied Genie. “ As a companion, I presume, the 
simpler the more appropriate.” 

“ Companion ; fiddle ! I am absolutely nobody without 
you. I am such a scrimp of a woman that only something 
magnificent like you keeps me in countenance. I am eight 
years your senior, and ten to one but everybody will take 
me for your chaperon. I am condemned to single blessed- 
ness, but you will marry, and certainly nothing less than 
a coronet will become your regal brow. You need not look 
so frightened ; you shall not be married unless you want 
to. I will not carry my authority so far. Good night. I 
know you are longing to be alone ; ” and little Olive tripped 
away. 

The woman was*very different from the girl Philip had 
carried down the steps. The crutches had long since been 
abandoned, and a slight halt, that a full trailing dress and 


WHO WAS SHE? 


287 ' 


slow languid walk greatly aided to conceal, was the only 
remaining indication of the old painful, one-sided limp. 

The moment she was gone, Imogene sprang up. 

“ Now, stubborn heart, you shall bend ! ” and smiling, 
with her radiant face turned toward the far shores of 
America, she reached out her hand to the distant land 
where he was fighting for liberty and the triumph of a na- 
tion — her voice a whisper, soft and sweet, an angel might 
have envied : 

“ Philip, I forgive thee! Ah, more; I love thee. I love 
thee ! I have long denied it, and to the world I ever shall. 
But to my own soul, that thou art not dead this night, I ’ll 
say it until the self-admission softens the anguish of these 
many years.” 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE COURT BALL. 

T HE imperial Tuileries were all ablaze with light, and 
gathered in the magnificent saloon was the best no- 
bility of France. The splendid court-dresses, velvet and 
gold, silk, satin, lace, and diamonds, shimmering every- 
where, seemed like a continuation of the music and untold 
magnificence of the gorgeous palace. And there, sur- 
rounded by titled lords and ladies, are Olive and Imogene. 
It was not their first court ball, for since their arrival in 
Paris, seven years ago, Imogene had frequented balls, fttes, 
and opera in search of a clue to her parentage. She was 
confident that the upper circles of Parisian society con- 
tained what she was seeking, and, ostensibly as Miss Col- 
burn’s duenna, she haunted scenes of mirth and festivity 
with the ardor of a devotee. Olive, in pale-blue satin and 


288 


WHO WAS SHE? 


pearls, looked pure and sweet as her own home-daisies, but 
expressed a deal more delight in Imogene’s dress than her 
own, because, as she frequently affirmed, she had the face 
and form to do it justice. To-night it was a rose-colored 
silk, trimmed about the waist and sleeves with white lace, 
and, except the small ruby brooch at her throat, she wore 
not a single jewel ; a few scarlet rosebuds in her hair, that 
was simply arranged in a mass of ebon curls at the back of 
her graceful head. 

“You are beautiful!” cried Olive, “even in that prim 
dress. It brings your beauty out superbly. You will drive 
the dress-enhanced belles of the evening to despair.”-- 

Imogene smiled. “You are a little flatterer, Olive; Mr. 
Colburn is waiting.” 

The member was very proud of his charge, for he saw 
that, amid all the congregated beauty of the palace, Imo- 
gene was uneclipsed. 

“ By my soul !” cried a gentleman in French to his com- 
panion, a tall, dark man in an elegant court costume, and 
cosmopolitan air, “ there is a magnificent creature.” 

“Where?” 

“ Why, there, on the right of Lord Radcliffe.” 

“What, the one in rose-color? On the'honor of a con- 
noisseur you are right ; that is the grandest face in Paris. 
Who is she ? I ’d like to know her.” 

“Ah! my dear marquis, don’t be too eager. She is 
handsome, but a nobody.” 

“A nobody! She looks a duchess to the manor born. 
There is not a crowned lady in Europe that can boast a 
head so naturally royal, or a manner more regal. Note 
the queenly bow she returns in response to the salutation 
of that haughty German prince. I ’ve seen a few women 
in my peregrinations around the globe, and she surpasses 
them all. This star must have risen since I left Paris. By 
the Lord, count, she is imperial ! ” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


289 


“ Imperial ! Chacun d son gout. Do you see the lady 
to the left ? ” said the count. 

“ The insignificant-looking girl in blue ? ” shrugged the 
marquis, disdainfully. 

“The same. Ma foi , you are ungallant. She is an 
heiress and an American, and to a man like myself, with a 
title, but without money, she is not insignificant. Your 
queenly one is her companion, a mere duenna ; pooh ! ” 

“ Companion or not, she attracts me.” The marquis de- 
liberately lifted his glass and honored the lady in rose-color 
with a lengthy stare. He was a handsome, ennuied - looking 
man of fifty, or thereabout, well preserved, of cynical aspect 
and haughty bearing. His eyes were large, black, and full 
of youthful fire, and although he had managed to keep the 
frost from his glossy black hair, there was no disguising 
the line of slight wrinkles on his bold, white forehead, nor 
the trace of crow-tracks about the corners of the alluring 
eyes. By a process known only to himself and his valet, 
the marquis still retained a faultlessly-trimmed dark mous- 
tache of surprising luxuriance and juvenility, and, take 
him altogether, he seemed a favorite with Time, who had 
dealt tenderly with the masculine beauty of the fashionably 
dissipated Marquis de la Vahl — a prince in wealth, and 
a peer of France, who knew the world, and had seen all it 
contained ; who had tasted of every pleasure, folly, and 
genteel sin in the universe, and was ready to exclaim, 
“ There is nothing new under the sun.” The marquis low- 
ered his glass and turned peremptorily to the penniless 
count. “ What do you know of her?” 

“ That she is of French parentage, born in America, 
highly educated, but of no family literally, for she is an 
orphan, without sister or brother ; make a note of the last — 
I know your proclivities. She is a finished musician, and, 
God be thanked, speaks French like a native ; on the whole, 
an uncommonly gifted creature, and since the Empress be- 
25 


290 


WHO WAS SHE? 


stowed such marked notice on her this evening, she may 
become the rage. The lady in blue is a Miss Colburn, and 
her father quite a distinguished man, an ex-member of the 
lower House. They were presented by the American am- 
bassador.” 

“ I must be introduced ; do you know them ? ” 

“Not personally, but an acquaintance can easily be 
effected.” 

“ The father, I presume, is a vulgar North American 
politician, with a voice and manner to set a gentleman’s 
teeth on edge. I have met some atrocious specimens of his 
class — bawling demagogues, ignorant of the first principles 
of society ; but I will endure the plre, for his exquisite taste 
in selecting chaperons is truly wonderful.” 

The count elevated his right shoulder. 

“Well, Monsieur le Marquis, yonder is the plre — the 
middle-aged gentleman conversing with Mr. Dix. Do you 
know the American minister?” 

“ I have been presented.” 

“ Then all you have to do is to embrace the opportunity, 
not the object, and you know yon beauteous lady?” 

The marquis immediately acted on the count’s sugges- 
tion, and suddenly was expressing a warm friendship for 
Mr. Dix. The Frenchman was slightly mistaken in the 
“vulgar North American politician,” and not a little dis- 
comfited at Lot Colburn’s dignified acknowledgment of his 
acquaintance. The calm steel-gray eyes fastened on the 
cynical, world-wise face of the marquis searchingly, when 
he craved the honor of knowing his daughter and his niece. 

“Miss Vale is not a relative, but she is my daughter’s 
dearest friend,” said the member, significantly implying 
that the Frenchman’s polite hypocrisy was understood. 

“ I beg pardon.” 

The nobleman bowed profoundly, evidently greatly re- 
penting his intentional blunder. 

Mr. Colburn w$s a quick, keen diviner of physiognomy, 


WHO WAS SHE? 


291 


and there was something about the carefully preserved fea- 
tures of the marquis that struck him as both peculiar and 
familiar, as if he had- seen its counterpart before in another 
land, and in a different form ; yet it was a strange face, and 
one he intuitively distrusted. 

“ He is still a fine-looking and courtly appearing man, 
and in his youth must have been a woman’s perfection 
of manly beauty. They spoiled him, no doubt ; hence the 
roue and cynic that he is,” thought Lot. 

The marquis misconstrued his hesitation, and cogitated 
on his part : 

“ Papa is cautious, and sees to it that no hawks gain 
access to his doves.” 

A break in the crowd, and Lord Kadcliffe came up with 
the “doves.” “The Fates are propitious,” murmured the 
peer, and in a second the formalities of the introduction 
were gone through with, and Imogene’s hand was on his 
arm. The marquis considered it an occasion worthy of his 
best. The ennuied air vanished, and he was the animated, 
vivacious, accomplished Marquis de la Vahl, sensible that 
the most beautiful woman in Eugenie’s royal saloons was 
on his arm, and the magnet of every eye, admiring, envious, 
and jealous. 

Imogene was conscious of a singular thrill of pleasure 
mingled with dislike, at the touch of her hand on his vel- 
vet sleeve. He paused in a remote angle of the grand 
saloon — a fairy place, where flowers were blooming, per- 
fumes exhaling, and water dropping from crystal vases 
among rare exotics and feathery ferns. The marquis spoke 
excellent English, tinged by a slight foreign accent that 
was only perceptible in moments of great empressement. 

“ I fancy we are as near Paradise as mortals this side of 
the golden gates are permitted,” said the marquis, glancing 
-at the splendid entourage of their sheltered nook. “ Life is 
beautiful, Miss Yale; I am fond of living.” 


292 


WHO WAS SHE? 


“I know it,” she returned. “You have it written on 
your face ; but I have not found it so. Life with me is a 
burden that I’ll at any time willingly lay down.” 

The marquis was startled. Was she affecting this as 
young-lady sentimentality, or was she in earnest? The 
Frenchman was wary of women ambitious of a monument, 
but the one glance of the beautiful sad eyes dissipated 
the doubt. They went down from his gaze without a blush 
or a tremble, convincing him that she meant what she said, 
and that he, nor any one, would ever be anything to her 
dead heart. 

“ You are young to have worn out life.” 

“ I am old in the troubles life entails.” 

“ It is best to forget them. Let the old flowers die, and 
plant new.” 

“ If you can. I feel strangely confidential to-night.” 

“And I strangely good,” quickly responded the marquis ; 
and he meant it, too. The better feelings that had slept 
for years stirred again in his pleasure-loving soul, and he 
wished the pure thoughts and nobler sentiments this girl 
inspired had always been his — that they would always 
remain with him. Imogene he reverenced and respected 
as he had reverenced and respected but one woman in his 
reckless life, and her he killed. Not a murder as the law 
construes it, but to his conscience it was very like it. She 
was standing a little from him, silent and thoughtful, and 
the hand he placed on hers, resting on the edge of a Parian 
vase, neither surprised nor embarrassed her. 

“Can we be friends, Miss Yale?” The hand resting on 
the vase went quietly to his arm. 

“ In that I like and dislike you, we will be friends.” 

He was confounded. She saw it, but did not change 
color or hesitate. 

“ Paris says I am not given to hasty likings, even those 
the most worthy, much less a stranger like the Marquis de 


WHO WAS SHE? 


293 


la Vahl, whom my woman instinct points out unprincipled 
toward my sex.” 

“ If a man had said as much — ” 

“ You would have challenged him for telling the truth ? ” 

“ How can I regain your good opinion?” 

“ Regain ? You have never had it. I was drawn to you 
without it, and, in spite of myself, I like you without.” 

“ You are a strange woman.” 

“ Yes, but stranger to-night than ever before. Now take 
me to Miss Colburn. We go home early.” 

The astonished and confused marquis complied, and in a 
few moments she had bade him good-night, and was gone 
from the gay assembly. Shortly after he left the palace; 
the glitter and splendor was stale and insipid without her ; 
and the next day and the next he thought of nothing but 
Imogene Yale. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

BEFORE THE BATTLE. 

A LL day long a heavy cannonade had reverberated 
among the Virginia hills. A canopy of smoke lay 
along the Blue Ridge, and the sun hid his face from the 
scene. The thunder of artillery met the thunder of heaven, 
and the pitying clouds dropped their oceans of tears on the 
crimson field, to wash out the stains from the trampled sod, 
and bathe the cold faces of twice six thousand dead soldiers 
strewn over the plain, and sprinkled the brow of the dying 
braves in the reeking Shenandoah valley. 

Since daylight a hundred thousand men had confronted 
each other in mortal hate. The retreating rebel army, de- 
25 * 


294 


WHO WAS SHE? 


feated, but still determined, withdrew to reform their shat- 
tered columns and hope for reinforcements ; and the Union 
troops, worn and exhausted, lay down on their arms, wait- 
ing to renew the battle with the morning. 

Ten miles in the rear of the advance, in a leaky shelter- 
tent, sat the commanding general. He had just arrived 
from the front, wet and mud-splashed from the high cavalry 
boots to the slouching hat. Throwing off his cloak and 
side-arms, he spread a map of Virginia before him, and fell 
to studying the route of the Shenandoah. 

Satisfied of the practicability of overtaking and destroy- 
ing the remainder of the Confederate forces, he pushed the 
map from him, and, resting his head on the rude table, for 
an hour remained perfectly quiet, sleeping or thinking, it 
were difficult to tell, but the attitude was that of a man 
completely fatigued in body and worn out in mind. 

Lifting his head slowly from its hard pillow, you would 
be surprised to see in this stern-eyed, bronze-faced chieftain, 
the little Phil of Alden’s censure. Yet it was Philip Shir- 
ley, hard lines of care on his face, and gray hairs thick 
about his temples. The large head, carrying the safety 
and success of an immense army, seemed to have expanded 
to meet the exigencies and terrific responsibilities pressing 
upon the great brain. 

The hardy general had not slept for twenty hours, but 
the fire in his eye was not dim, nor the muscles of the grim 
mouth relaxed. Philip had lost his transfiguring smile, 
and as that was all the beauty he ever possessed, his face 
was harsh — almost repellent, and nothing in the world in it 
now that Olive or Davie could ever love. He was little 
more than thirty-five, but he might have been fifty and 
looked younger. 

Trouble, a trouble that no one had eyer guessed, and 
hard service, exposure in the field, rough fare, and rough 
duty, knocked all the youth out of him early. The only 


WHO WAS SHE? 


295 


thing that was natural about him was his voice. Even in the 
most desperate moments, surrounded by seething masses of 
furiously charging men, his rapid commands had a touch 
of the old low-toned sweetness. It was few who dared ap- 
proach this fierce-eyed general with disastrous news, for his 
temper had increased with years and power, and the tidings 
of a repulse in his corps aroused him to ungovernable 
anger. It was the escape-valve for the concealed bitter- 
ness cankering his heart, and that had shrivelled up the 
boy-fun and generosity, leaving the worse passions to pre- 
dominate. Those who had witnessed his violent outbreaks 
were not zealous of his presence when the thunder-cloud 
was on his brow. Addicted to the use of profuse expletives 
when in a passion, he hurled his anathemas right and left, 
without stopping to choose his words, or care on whom they 
fell. It was after midnight, and, sitting there in the gloom 
of the one candle, his face was thoughtful even to sadness. 
He sighed audibly, compressing his lips sternly after the 
escaped tenderness. “ How many of my poor fellows dead 
and mangled to-night, I wonder ? I dread to see the list. 
How long will this horrible butchery last ? Where will 
this war end ? How long must I lead brave men to death ? 
Of a truth, blood follows my footsteps. I remember the 
prophesy, and the crimson river runs unabated,” he mut- 
tered, just as a galloping horse stopped before his tent. An 
officer plunged through the torn canvas, and, in breathless 
haste, exclaimed : 

“ Come, for God’s sake, general. The enemy, reinforced 
by ten thousand fresh troops, have attacked the right wing. 
The ranks are broken, and if the panic cannot be checked 
the whole advance is lost.” 

General Shirley looked at his aide-de-camp without a 
word, but a whistling breath went through his shut teeth, 
and the lines on his brow became scowling furrows from 
temple to temple. Colonel Murray, the favorite aide, 


296 


WHO WAS SHE? 


and the only one of his staff who volunteered to carry to 
Shirley the disastrous news, noticed the gathering fury, but 
it was not a time for hesitation. “ I bear a verbal message 
from General Howe that he must fall back if help did 
not speedily arrive. His exhausted troops are contending 
against overwhelming odds, and they cannot meet another 
onset.” 

“ Out with it, Murray,” cried the general, an ominous 
calm in his voice. “ Ho you mean to say that my army 
is retreating ? ” 

“Yes, sir; and the retreat will be general if not in- 
stantly checked.” 

“ Hell ! ” shouted the general, leaping to his feet. “ What 
officer in my command dare send me news like this ? I left 
Howe the guardian of a hard-won field, and the coward has 
tossed the victory back to the rebels ; curse him ! I do not 
know how to retreat, but I do to advance. What have we 
lost?” 

“Fifteen guns, our camp, tents — ” 

A tremendous oath silenced the aide. “ They must be 
retaken. I never lost a gun or a tent in my life, and I 
swear I never will. What time is it?” 

“ It lacks an hour and a half of being daylight.” 

“What columns are broken?” 

“ The second division is in utter confusion.” 

“ Order my horse ; I go with the second division,” thun- 
dered the incensed chief. “ They must retrieve their own, 
or never come out of the fight.” 

Murray departed. Shirley’s war-spirit was up once more, 
and he rattled his sword into its scabbard with an emphasis 
that threatened the bright silver mountings, seized his hat, 
and strode from the tent. A coal-black charger, held by 
the straightest of orderlies, was waiting to receive him. His 
foot w 7 as in the stirrup wdien the boom of a heavy gun 
sounded in the distance, another and another rolled through 


WHO WAS SHE? 


297 


the darkness. Murray, standing beside his horse near by, 
turned his head in the direction of the reports. 

“ They are at it, general .” 

“ Yes, the battle is on again.” 

For a moment the general sat erect in the saddle, buried 
in thought. Then he raised his head and gathered up the 
bridle. 

“ I ride alone, Murray.” 

He uttered a hasty order, and, despatching the aide-der 
camp in another direction, dashed away in the pale star- 
light. Emerging into the road, he put spurs to his steed 
and flew like the wind toward the scene of danger. Never 
did a horse come to the road with greater speed, and never 
was there greater need of haste. Faster and nearer boomed 
the guns, until the air was filled with the incessant roar. 
On, on, horse and rider scented the smoke of the conflict. 
The morning-star sat above the curtain of daylight, but the 
foam-flecked charger did not flag. On, on, the breeze came 
ladened with the rattle of musketry, the tramp of horses, 
and shouts of men. Another mile and General Shirley 
plunged into the d&bris of his routed army. Broken gun- 
carriages, abandoned arms, flying soldiers, panic-stricken 
oificers, maddened horses, infantry, cavalry, artillery, one 
wild, disorganized mass. Screams, and shouts, and groans, 
and curses mingled in the fearful uproar, and the yell of 
the elated rebels echoing above it all. General Shirley 
rode into the tumult calm outwardly, as if on review. But 
there was lightning in his eye, a slumbering devil of a 
smile about his mouth, and his grating teeth were gnashing 
execrations that, if uttered aloud, would have made con- 
fusion worse confounded, robbed him of every hard-earned 
laurel, wiped out of existence what was six hours before a 
splendid, victorious army, and spread dismay, dissatisfac- 
tion, and grief throughout the country. The prudent, 
sagacious general smothered his rage, concealed his tern- 


298 


WHO WAS SHE? 


per, changed his tactics, and was equal to the emergency. 
His fighting qualities had made him the idol of the soldiers, 
who readily forgive oaths and anger, but not timidity, in a 
commander. 

He would master the situation by his single bravery. 
Waving his sword above his head with one hand, he swung 
his hat in the other, and,, with the voice of a merry school- 
boy, cried cheerily : “ Let’s at them again, boys! Follow 
me, and we will lick them yet ! ” 

A murmured hurrah, from a wounded corporal, w r as 
taken up by the flying hosts, and, swelling into one long, 
wild cheer for Shirley and the Union, reached the far 
limits of the fleeing legions, and struck consternation to 
the exulting foe. Shirley was on the field: it went along 
the shattered line like wildfire, and stayed the whirlwind 
of flight. Companies, regiments, and brigades reformed, 
as if by magic ; and ardor, enthusiasm, and courage sprang 
out of the general chaos, and every man, armed with fresh 
ardor and determination, rushed to a renewal of the fight. 
They must retrieve their lost honor, and, as they had rushed 
from the enemy, they now rushed at them, resolved to die, 
but not to yield. General Shirley never cared for nice 
words, nor the punctilious turn of a sentence in the heat 
of battle, and his familiar exclamations of “ Go in, boys ! 
Give ’em plenty of lead ! Sizzle it into ’em ! ” were received 
with yells of acclamation. The little general had set the 
ball rolling in the opposite direction, had turned the tide, 
and a solid body of invincible Northmen charged at the 
dismayed rebels with an impetus that was irresistible, and 
that dealt fearful havoc in their ranks. 

The troops rallied to a‘ man, closing up around their 
chief an impenetrable phalanx of bayonets, and with deaf- 
ening huzzas bore down on the enemy. Again steel clashed 
against steel, and surging thousands compactly formed for 


WHO WAS SHE? 


299 


the terrible charge that should redeem their guns or stretch 
them dead on the blood-soaked earth. 

The second division fought like enraged demons, and 
the rising sun looked down on the savagely contested field 
without a sign of wavering on either side. Hotter and 
fiercer grew the struggle, faster and faster the ground 
drank blood, and in the midst of it, enveloped in a cloud 
of smoke, rode Philip Shirley. A cannon-ball crashing 
through the head of an aide at his side, tumbled him to the 
earth, but the near proximity of the ugly missile had only 
stunned him. He was up and on his plunging horse in a 
second. A color-bearer went down, cut in twain by a chain- 
shot. Shirley caught the colors as he fell, shook out the 
gory folds of the silken banner, and, with the bright em- 
blem of freedom fluttering above his dauntless head, fear- 
lessly galloped along the staggering line. His valor alone 
could save the day ; he knew it, and unflinchingly w T ent 
where death was thickest. 

“ Charge ! ” he cried. “ Charge ! break them by an as- 
sault, and the field is ours ! ” 

A screaming shell tore into the breast of his gallant 
charger ; extricating himself from the dying animal, he 
leaped to his feet, fearful that the cry of “ General Shirley 
is killed!” would be the signal of annihilation to his army. 

“All right, boys. I am on the tumble this morning. 
The f rebs’ are throwing their compliments prettly lively 
over there. Go for the battery, boys, and I am with you!” 

This was electrical. It seemed as if the heaps of dead 
were making a scramble for their rifles, and closing in with 
the living for one more charge. As the intrepid little gen- 
eral spoke, a young sergeant fell dead immediately before 
him, his hot blood spurting warm in his face, and sprinkling 
the burnished buttons of his coat. Phil coolly wiped it off 
with the back of his hand, stepped over the palpitating 
body, and vaulted into the saddle of a riderless horse 


300 


WHO WAS SHE? 


prancing in snorting terror near by. Rising in the stir- 
rups, he clapped his hands and shouted inspiringly : 

“ Keep it up five minutes longer, and we are hunkie ! 
Hurrah ! ” 

The rebels were repulsed — routed, flying in all directions 
like frightened sheep. Cheer upon cheer broke along the 
Union columns, and was taken up by the dying lips scat- 
tered among the piles of slain. The animation had fled 
with the necessity from General Shirley’s heavy features. 
There was a limit to human vitality and endurance, and 
he had reached the end of his ; and without waiting for aid 
or staff, the hero of the greatest achievement of the war 
slowly rode toward the rear, with eyes moodily bent upon 
the ground, and the least elated of the thousands shouting 
behind him. The old habit of carrying his hat in his hand 
still clung to him, and looking at it, he muttered : “ I must 
bear a charmed life, for my clothing is riddled like a sieve. 
Three bullet-holes in my hat, at any rate ; but better there 
than in my brain, I suppose.” His face was so begrimed 
with blood and smoke, mingled with dust and perspiration, 
that but for the short figure he was hardly recognizable. 
Until early dusk he was busy in giving orders and sending 
despatches, and when the pen had finished what the sword 
had commenced, he retired from the cracker-box that had 
served him as a table, and withdrew to a clump of trees, 
out of range of the noise incident to clearing a battle-field 
of its ghastly encumbrances, pitching tents, and getting 
supper. He spread his blanket on the grass beneath a 
huge live-oak, and, wrapped only in his cloak, General 
Shirley lay down to sleep — the tired head unpillowed, and 
the tired heart again given over to the old regret. 

One by one the stars came, and while the chieftain lay 
there, fatigued and weary, his name was flashing over the 
wires to every city, town, and hamlet where the cause of 
the Union was loved. Philip had his meed of glory ! But 


WHO WAS SHE? 


301 


did it satisfy? Ten thousand homes desolated, ten thou- 
sand widows, and twice ten thousand orphans weeping that 
he had been victorious. This it cost to make him great — 
to conquer for the nation — and he had neither wife nor 
child. Ah ! who could estimate: the blood, and tears, and 
suffering of that awful day ? Philip thought of this, and 
out from the clouds appeared, like the mirage of the desert, 
a beautiful face. It was a star at first, twinkling at him 
through a rift of the leaves, but it gradually shaped into a 
resplendent girlish semblance, and hovered above him with 
w r ings that lost themselves in stars ; a mantle of ether, soft 
and fleecy as an angel’s raiment, floated from the half-de- 
fined shoulders ; undulating waves of black hair clinging 
around the grand brow, and eyes softly brilliant in gentle 
triumph. Sailing higher, it circled nearer, and, poised in 
the middle of the heavens, just w T here he could meet the 
dark eyes, the beautiful vision folded its starry wings, and 
in a voice like the whispering of the south wind addressed 
him: “Now is the measure of your ambition full. Your 
name is immortal. Poets sing it ; history records it. You 
have won the goal, and stand on the pinnacle of earthly 
greatness. A nation shouts high your valor ; your praise 
is on every tongue. You have reached the summit of fame, 
but are you happy? This is the reverse of the picture 
mortals paint as glory.” She pointed a shadowy hand 
toward the earth, and there, marching in ghastly ranks, 
were a regiment of bloody dead. Torn, mangled, and bleed- 
ing, the corpses of the near battle-field faced into line, a 
mutilated cohort of war’s pallid victims. A mingling of 
wails and shrieks suddenly filled all the air, and in dresses 
of palls a multitude of women and children, wringing 
their hands and, sobbing, fell at the feet of the mute bri- 
gade — wives, mothers, children, and sisters. Yet, of the 
many fathers, sons, husbands, and brothers in that ghastly 
26 


302 


WHO WAS SHE? 


array, not one held ouka pitying hand ; not one uttered a 
loving word ; not one answered to his name, though called 
in accents of anguish ; and while they prayed and moaned 
in useless entreaty, the earth slowly opened, and all — men, 
women, and children — were buried together, without stone 
or monument to tell that they had lived. The spirit-star 
vanished, and Philip awoke from his dream, aroused by 
two men, who, unaware of his proximity, had stopped to 
rest, for the figure they carried on the stretcher was heavy, 
and they had borne it from the furthest outpost unaided. 
The figure on the stretcher lifted his head, and Philip saw 
a colonel’s strap on the shoulder nearest to him, and heard 
a voice he knew say, faintly : “ I have not long to live, but, 
while you are taking breath, and I am losing mine, let’s 
hurrah for General Shirley. He is from Alden, and 
trumped the rebs right out of their trick most beautifully.” 
Lawrence Parker made a brave effort to raise a cheer, but 
it failed in his throat, and he fell back, whispering: “I’d 
give half of the little life I ’ve left to see the general once 
more.” Shirley scrambled up, a phantom of his dream 
still clinging to him in the shape of Colonel Parker’s 
young wife, who would be a widow on the morrow, and one 
of the sable-robed mourners of his vision, and, speaking to 
the foremost man as he came forward, asked: “Shall I 
bear a hand, my lads ? ” 

“Are you a skulker?” demanded the wounded officer. 
“ If you are, you can’t help carry me.” 

“ Not a bit of a skulk. I ’ve done my part.” 

“ General Shirley, I know your voice, though you are 
trying to disguise it. Don’t take me farther ; let me die 
here. I want to send a message to Mary. Poor wife, her 
baby is only a month old, and I have never seen it. I 
never shall see it. These fights are hardest on the women, 
general.” 

“Are you badly hurt, colonel?” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


303 


“ Got it through the body. I don’t mind for myself. It 
is my wife and child that worries me” 

‘‘I’ll look out for Mary and the baby. Does that con- 
tent you, Parker ? ” 

The quiver in Philip’s voice was only equalled by the sob 
in the dying officer’s, who could scarcely muster strength 
to press the hand laid on his own. 

“ The world is slipping from me, and you are little Phil, 
playing by the roadside with the Lee girls. We are all 
changed, you more than all. God bless you, general ; 
Mary — ” 

“ You may bear him along now, boys, without care for 
His wounds.” 

General Shirley turned on his heel, and the two men 
went on with Colonel Parker, dead on the stretcher. He 
did not resume his slumbers, but set out to find the ever- 
faithful Murray, who would probably have a tent and 
supper ready by this time. 

“ Been searching everywhere for you,” said the aide, acci- 
dentally encountering him where he least expected, tramp- 
ing alone under the trees. “ I ’ve a tent rigged as comfort- 
able as circumstances will allow, and a bottle of Colonel 
Dodge’s prime sherry — poor fellow, he won’t need any 
more — and the wing of a chicken, that you may find pal- 
atable if your fast has been as long as mine.” 

“ So long that I can’t remember when or where I swal- 
lowed my last hard-tack ; ” and, drawing up a stool, the 
general did ample justice to the catering colonel’s viands. 
After his appetite had been satisfied, and he had given 
orders that he was not to be disturbed, the general spent 
an hour in writing to Mary Parker, Murray silently dozing 
on a camp-chest, and reflectively sipping sherry meanwhile. 
Carefully folding, sealing, and addressing it, he pushed it 
toward him. “ Mail that to-morrow. Colonel Parker is 
dead.” 


304 


WHO WAS SHE? 


“ What! ” Murray was amazed. 

“ Colonel Parker is dead, and a young wife and infant 
left, as all army officers’ wives are, destitute. If women’s 
hearts ever do break, this will come near breaking hers.” 

Phil rested his elbow on his knee, and his forehead in 
his hand, so long that sipping sherry became irksome to 
Murray, and he plaintively ventured to open on a different 
topic, and one very marvellous, to him at any rate. 

“ It beats all, general ; here am I five years your senior, 
and only wear a silver leaf, and you with the prettiest pair 
of double stars in the service. Not that I have not been 
in some all-fired tight places that I had to fight my way 
out of ; and that was a devil of a wound I got the last time. 
I thought it was a leg gone, sure ; but I lack your dash 
and coolness. I never could get the hang of your manoeu- 
vring at close quarters. You have a laurel now, that old 
Time can’t wither. After to-day your name will be known 
as far as civilization extends. By Jove, I envy you, gen- 
eral.” 

“ And yet this is far from being a happy moment with 
me.” 

This was a great admission for Philip to make to a 
subordinate, or to any one. But they had been friends so 
long that Murray seemed entitled to some little confidence 
from his chief. Encouraged by his apparent listening 
attitude, the colonel continued in the same plaintive 
strain : 

“ Confounded lonesome thing to think of, for a man to 
fight and win, and have no wife nor child to share it ; no- 
thing in the world to give his honors to but his grim old 
self. And these tremendous tussels shake the youth out of 
a fellow so fast that we are old before we are done being 
young, or what would be young in other men.” 

Murray rubbed the rough, bearded cheek that had not 
felt a razor for a week, and looked at a hole in the canvas 


WHO WAS SHE? 305 

beyond the general’s head, as if he had lost something and 
it was hidden there. 

“You are not particular in intimating that you have a 
skeleton in your closet, Murray, and although you keep it 
flimsily disguised, it is not difficult to guess its sex. Who 
was she, colonel ? ” 

“Ah, well, you see, general, we all have our dreams, and 
at one time in my life I thought that to lay my modest 
bays at a certain woman’s feet would repay me for all the 
hardships endured in the winning ; but she wouldn’t accept 
my life-labor, and so here I am, a rough old bachelor — the 
saddle my home, and the sword my only sweetheart. Singu- 
lar that a little girl, slim and fair, and who once shyly 
acknowledged to loving me a little, should keep her mem- 
ory tender in my heart all these years. Suppose we adopt 
Parker’s baby, and name it after us ? ” 

“ It may be a girl, and possibly already named,” dryly 
suggested the general. 

Murray looked blank, and took a glass of sherry as an 
antidote to his short-sightedness. It warmed him to a 
further discourse of a personal character. , 

“ Sometimes I say behanged to the old memory, and pic- 
ture myself with a bonny wee wife and baby or two — I 
should not mind three, if there was a prospect of promo- 
tion, to give the matter importance and respectability. Are 
you ever troubled by such fancy-sketches ? ” 

“No,” said the general, emphatically. “I never devote 
my thoughts to visionary themes. My idols are all sub- 
stantial and matter-of-fact.” 

Colonel Murray’s private opinion of this, if truthfully 
translated, would have been: “If you ever told a lie. 
General Phil Shirley, you are telling a rouser now. For 
I ’ll bet my life there is a skeleton in your closet bigger 
than mine, and though better disguised, I can guess its 
26 * 


306 


WHO WAS SHE? 


sex, and, if I dare, ask with you, who was she ? ” but he 
only said, commiseratingly : 

“ We never know what may happen, and we may stum- 
ble into matrimony yet.” 

“ I shall never marry,” said Shirley, decisively, and his 
eye fastened on a stain in the canvas-wall, as if he had lost 
something too, and that were the impress of its vanishing. 

“ I am sorry, and I am not ; sorry that you should have 
no domestic altar, and not that your terrible temper might 
unguardedly wound to death a gentle wife — break her 
heart, general, and you never know it.” 

Philip turned on him sharply. “ Do you intimate that 
I am not a gentleman, or that I could be cruel to a 
woman ? ” 

“ Don’t mistake me. It just crossed my mind that if a 
wife should see your face with the savage war-look at its 
height, she might ever after fear to caress it, lest an un- 
lucky word might cause it to gather there, and she the 
object.” 

“You make me out a fiend, and in my boyhood I was 
noted for my gentleness and forbearance with girls, and 
was the self-constituted defender of a score,” he replied, 
less hotly. 

“ Halcyon days ! I ’d like to have known you then, gen- 
tle and forbearing, before this grim severity settled upon 
you. But, good night ; it is past eleven, and I feel as if I 
could endure considerable rest without grumbling ; and I 
have yet to find a place wherein to bunk.” And bowing, 
the love-lorn colonel gracefully retired, leaving Philip to 
his reproachful self-communings. 

“Ah, a woman did once see the demon in my face, and 
this hand, this very right hand, that to-day wrote out so 
grand a page of history, struck a woman to the earth — a 
woman who loved me, and whom I loved, God knows, with 
all my soul. She forgave me the blow, for she was sorry 


WHO WAS SHE? 


307 


for me then ; but not the deeper wound I left upon her 
heart. What a fool I was to think that she could ever 
retard my progress or detract from my greatness ! How 
utterly mean, selfish, and contemptible I must have ap- 
peared to her — and to make the discrepancy more hateful 
and distorted, to protest that I loved her, and have the 
assurance to tell her so, and at the same time renounce her ! 
Now I see how splendidly she would have augmented my 
honors. Lifting her beautiful face from the background 
of my fame, as I saw it to-night among the clouds, she 
would be the crowning glory of my life ; but here I am, 
morose and gray, when I ought to be young and light- 
hearted, caressing Imogene’s children. Wifeless, childless, 
and alone ; ah, quite alone ! Hollow fame, how you mock 
me in the very hour of triumph ! ” 

Philip’s hand was wandering on his knee, as if it were 
fondling an infant’s head, just about so high, with eyes like 
Gypsy’s, and rosy lips, that were learning to say papa, and 
find the way to climb into his arms, with love the only 
teacher. Unsteady little feet seemed tottering at his knee, 
little fingers clinging to the strength of his. A little face 
just out of babyhood lay trustfully against the bronze of 
his ; and it might have been a reality but for the pride of 
the past ; only a dream, but it might have been real but 
for the false pride of the past. Oh, no, General Shirley 
was not visionary ; his idols were all substantial and matter- 
of-fact ; but, for all the brave assertion, he had spent an 
hour in building the largest and frailest kind of an air- 
castle ; and, like all architects of these airy dwellings, had 
the mortification of seeing it tumble to pieces before it was 
fairly completed. What demolished Philip’s was the sight 
of the letter addressed to Mary Parker, and aJdndling of 
wrath that Colonel Murray had forgotten to take it. Such 
is the consistency of human nature. 


308 


WHO WAS SHE? 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


THE MYSTERY NO LONGER A MYSTERY. 

S may be supposed, the Marquis de la Vahl did not 



iY fail to pay his respects to Miss Colburn and Miss 
Vale at a very early day after the ball, and in a week he 
had made himself so agreeable that he was a privileged 
caller with the ladies, although yet distrusted by the pere. 
In conversing about him, Imogene remarked : 

“ I like, and dislike him, if such a sentiment be possible.” 

And Olive said : “ He is a widower, or divorced, or some- 
thing of the kind, and in many respects I fear his morals 
are not commendable ; but outwardly he is certainly the 
gentleman; and — goodness, that’s his ring now, the old 
adage verified, and I leave him to you, for I am sure I 
would be one too many.” And before Imogene could ob- 
ject, she had left the room. 

The marquis looked at Imogene, and Imogene looked at 
the marquis, both at a loss what to say, and, for people of 
the world, behaving very awkward indeed. 

Miss Vale said, “ Good evening,” and motioned him to a 
seat. 

The marquis said, “ Good evening,” and accepted the 
seat ; and then both looked at the carpet in a foolish, mean- 
ingless fashion, that was positively ridiculous in such soci- 
ety-schooled creatures as the marquis and Imogene. The 
Frenchman was the first to rally, and that, too, in words 
that would have shocked any one but Miss Vale. 

“ Imogene, I love you.” 


“An^; CTove you,” she replied, composedly. He had 
been longing to tell her this ; but her calm echo of his 
feelings somehow jarred his finer sensibilities, and he 


WHO WAS SHE? 309 

wished she had not been so quick to reciprocate, for he did 
not intend to make an offer of his hand along with his con- 
fessed love ; neither was there a base thought in his mind 
toward her. He could not restrain the hasty words, and 
bit his lips in vexation that they had escaped. Looking 
steadily at him — no blush, no agitation, no hesitation — 
she repeated : “ I love you ; but it is as I would love one 
who has injured me. In one sense I love you, in another I 
do not ; and you can make what you like out of the strange 
contradiction.” 

“ I have experienced some such feeling myself, and I 
could not, although I hold you most dear, make you my 
wife.” 

“ Your wife ! I never thought of such a thing. Good 
heavens! I could die, but marry you — never! Don’t I 
see the errors of a misspent life plainly written on your 
face ? Don’t I see fashionable dissipation in your manner, 
and man-of-the- world visible in your every act?” 

The look of absolute horror that accompanied the words 
convinced him that she read his character clearly. He did 
not wish her .to think worse of him than he really was, and 
said, deprecatingly : 

“ You are estimating me too low. I have never over- 
stepped a certain bound, nor fatally injured but one life. I 
have found the majority of your sex clever, wicked, and 
intriguing, with no sensitiveness to shock, no principles to 
overcome, and no heart to mar — the better, purer minority 
I have left to their goodness and purity. I never was a 
serpent to coil in the nest of a dove. The world gives me 
credit for more sins than I am guilty of, and I fear you 
have imbibed more of its opinion than I shall ever be able 
to eradicate. To prove how highly I esteem your friend- 
ship, I will tell you all ray past some day, and leave you to 
judge of my transgressions, and, I hope, forgive them. 
Will you give me confidence for confidence, Imogene?” 


310 


WHO WAS SHE? 


She flushed a little, and shook her head. 

“ I see you have a secret. We all have. Mine is encrusted 
beneath many frivolities, but I could bare my soul to you, 
and that, to another, I have never done. We understand 
each other for the future, and if Miss Colburn and yourself 
will honor me so far as to accompany me to the Chantilly 
races to-morrow, my carriage is at your disposal. Royalty 
will be there, and altogether a grand affair.” 

Imogene accepted for herself and Olive, and, bowing his 
adieus, the well-pleased marquis took his leave. In the 
hall he met Lot Colburn, and he did not like the expression 
of that statesman’s eye when it lit upon him sternly, nor the 
tone of his voice when he said : 

“ Miss Yale is under my protection, and understand, sir, 
I ’ll have no trifling in that quarter.” 

The marquis ruffled his plumes in an instant. 

“ Please understand, sir, in return for your courteous 
insinuations, that, of all women in the world, I esteem 
Miss Yale the most.” 

“ And that is no great compliment, if public opinion be 
true.” 

“ Sir!” 

“ Nonsense ! I am a plain-spoken American, and know 
nothing of the code of honor as relating to swords and pis- 
tols. Your amours are such as I discountenance, and no 
gentleman should be proud of.” 

“I cannot resent what in another I should deem an 
insult and punish as such, for I am glad in my heart that 
you guard this girl so carefully. And I give you my most 
sacred word, sir, that my breast harbors not one unholy 
thought in connection with her. Do you believe me?” 

The marquis was in earnest, if ever a man was, and the 
astute Lot knew it. 

“Yes; and if I misjudged you, I beg your pardon.” 

They shook hands, and the Marquis de la Yahl went up 


WHO WAS SHE? 


311 


several degrees in Mr. Lot Colburn’s good opinion, and it is 
only fair to say that the North American politician took 
several strides in the better estimation of the Marquis de la 
Yahl. 

At the appointed hour on the following day the superb 
equipage of the marquis drew up before the Honorable 
Lot’s door, and soon after the ladies of his family were 
being handed in by the noble marquis. Olive was in ad- 
vance and already seated ; when, glancing back, she was 
frightened by seeing the deathly pale face of Imogene 
drop helplessly to the nobleman’s supporting shoulder. 

“I — I am a little faint,” she whispered, staring like one 
in a nightmare. 

Her faltering feet wavered on the carriage-step, and but 
for the marquis she would have fallen. He lifted her in 
his arms as tenderly as if she were an infant, and placed 
her beside Olive on the velvet-cushioned seat, without a 
word;. but the deep solicitude of his fine eyes told Olive 
that he was capable of much genuine gentleness and good 
feeling, in spite of the accumulated rubbish that various im- 
moralities had left upon his versatile nature. 

“I am better now. You may drive on,” said Imogene, 
trying to force a smile, and the carriage whirled away. 

What had caused this sudden and excessive emotion 
neither Olive nor the marquis could tell, but it was a very 
simple cause. Merely the richly emblazoned crest on the 
Marquis de la Yahl’s carriage-door — a green serpent, em- 
blematical of eternity, coiling around a crimson heart. 

Imogene never knew much about that ride, or whether 
royalty graced the Bois or not; but when they arrived at 
home she whispered to the marquis, while assisting her to 
alight, “Come and see me this evening;’* and, not stop- 
ping for Olive’s slower steps, ran up to her room in a fever 
of suppressed joy, delight, and triumph. 

“Imbecile, not to have guessed it before! Now, Aunt 


312 


WHO WAS SHE? 


Ruth, I am coming, I am coming home to you ! O heart, 
you have patiently borne sorrow, do not burst with joy ! 
O mother, mother, he is full of sins, but he never did 
thee that one great wrong ! He broke your heart, but he 
broke it honorably. He dug you a sad, but not a shameful 
grave ; and that he was so merciful, I ’ll love and forgive 
• him in your name, for you loved and forgave him unto 
death ! ” 

Elinor’s wedding-ring slipped on her daughter’s third 
finger in pride, that she was no longer nameless, and her 
mother no longer a theme to doubt. The fading daylight 
brought the marquis, and Imogene went to meet him with a 
gladness that came near betraying her before the time. 

The marquis rose to greet her as cordially as if he had 
not seen her for a month. 

“You promised to tell me something of your life, and I 
have taken a fancy to hear the story to-night. Will you 
gratify me?” 

“ Will you tell me the cause of your emotion to-day ? ” 

“ Yes, afterward.” 

“ It is not a pleasant subject, but I will keep my word, if 
you will have patience to listen.” 

“ You may be sure I will be patient ; ” and without more 
urging or preface, the marquis launched into his personal 
and private history, sparing neither himself nor others in 
its concise narrating. 

“ Twenty-eight years ago I married a sweet, amiable girl 
of eighteen, simply and solely because I loved her ; but, 
notwithstanding, some called it a mesalliance , and in many 
respects it was, for I was wild and fond of pleasure ; she 
saintly in nature and strongly averse to the ceaseless rounds 
of splendid gayeties to which I was devotedly attached, 
and which from boyhood I had freely participated in with- 
out stint or restraint. I was only twenty-three, but I had 
sown a pretty extensive crop of wild oats in that time, and 


WHO WAS SHE? 


313 


at my marriage the supply was by no means exhausted, 
which my wife was not slow to find out and deplore. She 
protested, and I persisted, and-of course trouble commenced. 
She worshipped me, and, like other men better by far than 
I ever pretended to be, I presumed upon it, although I 
loved her dearly in my gay, heedless way, as I have never 
loved a woman before or since.” 

“And was she fair or dark?” questioned Imogene, in 
breathless interest. 

“ She was fair as a snowdrop — a fair, gray-eyed English 
girl, that I accidentally met in my travels here in France, 
fell in love with, and married in two months. She was well- 
born and well educated ; a graceful, modestly-mannered, 
good woman ; too good for me, for I did not know how to 
appreciate or breathe her purer atmosphere. She possessed 
nothing in the point of wealth. There was a magnificent 
estate somewhere in the South of England, but it was en- 
tailed on the male heirs, and, according to that barbarous 
English law, left my wife penniless ; but I did not care for 
that — my revenues were princely, and English pounds no- 
thing to me. I made her a marchioness, and lavished on 
her all the splendor and luxury that wealth can command ; 
but I did not relinquish my past, dashing life, nor leave off 
the thousand follies that I knew were abhorrent to her. 
Things continued in this state till the birth of her child — 
a girl ; it was a black-eyed, dark little elf, the image of 
myself. I never saw it but once. It was only a month 
old, and she laid the little thing in my arms one day, with 
a prayer in her eyes that I would be better for its innocent 
sake ; but I did not heed it; I merely kissed the elfin sprite, 
and tossed it back to her with the laughing remark, ‘That 
now she ’d ^ baby like me, she ought to be content, and 
when a beauty and a belle, such as she promised to be, I d 
be glad to see her again’ and — and I have never seen 
either of tliejn since. Both mother and child disappeared, 
27 


314 WHO WAS SHE? 

and, seared as I am, I have never recovered from the 
loss” 

“ I have no doubt you drove the young mother to this 
last desperate step by the graceless conduct you treat so 
lightly,” said Imogene, coldly. 

“ I know it; but she suspected me where I was not guilty. 
She had the best of me, and, if she had been more patient 
and less hasty and distrustful, might have reclaimed me, 
and saved herself untold suffering. As God sees me, I 
never was unfaithful to her, even in thought ; but she 
heard of my bachelor amours, and the idea grew upon her 
that I was untrue, and had never loved her. This, to a 
woman of her single-heartedness, and loving, confiding 
temperament, was the bitterness of death. In vain I pro- 
tested my innocence, and disclaimed everything like infi- 
delity. The pernicious doubt had taken complete posses- 
sion of her mind, and was not to be eradicated. She had 
been religiously brought up, and the recklessness of my 
unmarried career naturally made her distrust my married 
devotion. Smarting under her unjust suspicions, I became 
wilder than ever. Cards and wine never tempted me, but 
the turf, and the innumerable allurements of the dazzling 
circle in which I moved did, and I gave myself up to their 
fascination, with redoubled zest. She did not complain 
beyond a mild semblance of persuasion, that was too gentle 
for a rebuke, and too loving for censure ; but she was so 
evidently unhappy, that her sad face was a continual 
reproach, that I took to avoiding out of sheer self-upbraid- 
ing. In this dangerous state of mind I unfortunately joined 
a party of convivial friends about to make the tour of 
Switzerland, I intended to return in a month, but one 
pleasure after another detained me, and I grew careless 
about writing — cruelly neglectful, you would say — but the 
truth is, I did not know what to write. She did not think 
as I did, and what pleased her bored me, so I made my let- 


WHO WAS SHE? 


315 


ters brief, and seldom as possible. At last we decided to 
ascend the Alps. I wrote her my decision, and that, in 
consequence, she need not expect to hear from me for some 
weeks. In the mean time a cousin of mine, by the same 
name, Count de Vahl, a gay, jovial scamp, too, whose sins 
I have often been compelled to shoulder, set out for Amer- 
ica. She jumped to the rash conclusion, through confound- 
ing the names, that I had deceived and deserted her, and 
came to believe the very worst of me. I may be guilty of 
follies, but not of crime ; and if she had known me better 
she would not have been so quick to condemn. Labor- 
ing under this most unhappy mistake, she set out for the 
United States in search of me, without informing any one 
of her. purpose. On landing in New York she followed 
the track of my cousin to Pittsburg, and there discovered 
her error. She was too proud to return, and, broken- 
hearted, wandered into Ohio. I have travelled all through 
that section of the country since I came to know her fate ; 
but although I searched and advertised, I could discover 
no trace of my lost wife. I can account for it in no other 
way than that she concealed her name, and in dying made 
no sign of who she was. She found a home in a respect- 
able Western family, and there lived out her days, far away 
from home and kindred that were hers by right.” 

“And how did you obtain this knowledge?” 

“ A little before she died she sent the date of her mar- 
riage, with that of the birth of her child, to her sister, 
begging her, should the necessity ever arise, to care for her 
daughter. There was a long account of the place and 
family in which she lived, but all names were carefully 
omitted ; and that is strange, when she asked her sister to 
care for the child, which, without a clue to its identity or 
its whereabouts, was utterly impossible.” 

“ Perhaps when the letter was written she meditated im- 
parting such of her history as related to the future welfare 


316 


WHO WAS SHE? 


of her daughter to the kind lady with whom she resided, 
and through whom the child could be restored to its 
friends,” softly suggested Imogene. 

“ I presume so, for there was a postscript of two lines 
only, but which might mean a great deal more than is 
apparent. 1 1 leave the child in good hands, and she will 
know how to act for her when I am gone/ I think those 
are the exact words.” 

“ And she might have died sooner, or more sudden than 
she expected — it takes so long to die of a wounded heart 
— and left this good woman unable to act.” 

The marquis sighed. “ It is all supposition beyond the 
fact that she died and left the child alone. It was like her 
to be shy and chary of her confidence, and she had a sort 
of still, meek pride that is the hardest in the world to 
break down. She has crept off by herself and quietly 
endured. Ten years ago the sister died of consumption. 
It runs in the family ; and, knowing her recovery hopeless, 
she sent the papers to me. She had a clearer idea of my 
nature, and believed that the father would be the proper 
person to look after the child, and, although it took her 
many years to reach this conclusion, it was the only right 
one ; hence my journey to the United States with the faint 
hope of finding her, the mere postmark, Ohio, my only 
guide. She intimates in her letter, or rather journal, that 
she would prefer her daughter to grow up under the roof 
where she had found rest and peace than be exposed to the 
dark whirlpools that had engulfed her. Oh, well, regrets 
are useless ; you have the sad story, and I have not screened 
myself; and now you know T why I shall never care for what 
men call real love again. I am careless, cynical, and skep- 
tical, but not depraved ; and virtue has no enemy in me.” 

“I recognize something of your nature in my own, and 
it makes me loving and forgiving toward you, and this 
young wife’s name was — what? You have not told me.” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


317 


“ Elinor.” Imogene laid her hand on his. 

“ Great God ! ” he cried, staring aghast at the sparkling 
ring ; “ where did you get that ? Who are you ? ” 

“ I am Elinor’s child.” 

“ My daughter ! Oh, now my love has found its level, 
and I may take you in my arms, dear, dear child of Elinor, 
with all my soul’s great sacred love.” 

“ Father! It is a name foreign to my tongue, but I come 
to your bosom as my natural refuge, trusting the love that 
will meet me there.” She threw herself on his breast, and 
the dissolute father and beautiful, noble-natured daughter 
were united in undying filial and paternal love. The mar- 
quis was blessed with one pure and perfect affection, and 
it touched the one pure and perfect fount that a hundred 
vices had left untainted in his heart. 

Olive entered, and was astounded to see her companion, 
the very pink of decorum, hugging and being hugged by 
the handsome marquis, in the most fervent and mutual 
manner possible. 

“ Don’t be scandalized, dear Olive,” said Imogene, radi- 
antly, “ this is my father, and the weary search is ended.” 

“ Your father ! ” Olive could not believe her ears. 

“Yes,” spoke up the marquis, “and, henceforth, my 
daughter is one of the first ladies of France.” The ruling 
spirit was strong, even in the moment of his new-found 
joy, and that she was a daughter to be proud of was no 
less a blessing than that she was his daughter. Of course, 
Olive kissed Imogene, and shook hands with the marquis, 
and repented of all the evil things she had ever thought 
of him. At the height of these congratulations Lot Col- 
burn came in, and, after a hasty explanation, heartily 
added his, and received the voluminous thanks of the mar- 
quis for the care and affection he had bestowed on his 
child. 

Mr. Colburn, in staid, modestly -put protests, replied 
27 * 


318 


WHO WAS SHE? 


that he owed him no thanks, for Imogene had been an 
angel to his child when she was lame and feeble ; and so 
the French plre and the American pere shook hands 
again, and, in the excess of his gratitude, the former would 
have kissed him, only Lot was too much of a Yankee, and 
did n’t know how to gracefully salute a French moustache ; 
but Olive and Imogene flew to kissing each other behind 
the backs of their respected p&res with the most enthusi- 
astic feminine empressement. 

When the happy confusion had somewhat subsided, 
Imogene said, earnestly : “ The first steamer that sails 
takes me back to Aunt Ruth. I promised her ; and you 
will want to see my mother’s grave.” She turned to her 
father at the last, and he kissed her for answer. 

“ I presume you consider yourself the proudest and hap- 
piest man in the universe ; but just now I am rather proud 
and happy myself,” said Lot to the marquis proper, but 
to everybody generally. “ The Legislature of my native 
State has seen fit to propose my name for senatorial honors, 
and letters this moment received inform me that my nom- 
ination only awaits my acceptance, and begging, in case I 
consent, to return at once; and as I have accepted, it is im- 
perative that I leave immediately for home. I am getting 
such a buxom daughter that a pretext of her ill health 
will hardly be sufficient to detain me in Paris ; and more 
than all, there is a bright prospect of peace greeting us on 
the other shore. Atlanta has surrendered ; there ended 
the march to the sea. Shirley has swept the Shenandoah, 
and the fall of Richmond is every day imminent. Will 
you be ready to cross the channel by Thursday ? ” 

Imogene said she would be ready in an hour, and Olive, 
a little less sanguine, thought that two days was the least 
she could promise. 

A week later, and our Paris party were comfortably 
installed on board the splendid steamer Italy, and fairly 


WHO WAS SHE? 


319 


homeward bound. On the morning of the third of April, 
1865, the Italy rounded her New York pier, and from her 
deck the hundreds of passengers congregated along the 
guards saw the forest of shipping decorated from mast to 
yards with bunting, flags, and streamers of every conceiv- 
able size, and, floating from steeples, warehouses, public 
buildings, and private dwellings, waved the gay, old, starry 
flag of the free. The whole city was in jubilee-dress and 
spirits, colors high in the breeze, cannon firing, bells ring- 
ing, and men cheering everywhere. A vociferating news- 
boy, with an emblem of peace fluttering in the rear, was yell- 
ing at the top of his voice, on the wharf : “ Evacuation of 
Richmond,” “New York Tribune, third edition ! ” “E-vacu- 
ation of Rich-mond ! ” and in less than a second every male 
passenger was up to his eyes in a Tribune. It was glorious 
news to Lot Colburn, and he felt like pinning a penny flag 
to his beaver, and crying hurrah with the best of them. 
Olive thought she would like to turn into a Goddess of 
Liberty for a short time, and sport a dress of stars and 
stripes and a cap of laurel-leaves. Imogens fancied she 
could almost whistle Yankee-doodle, or do something else 
equally outre; and the marquis shrugged his non-appre- 
ciating French shoulders, for he was tired of the sea, and 
longing for a shore breakfast and a glass of prime claret, 
neither of which could be obtained among the rag-tailed, 
heterogeneous, stereotyped crowd of a foreign steamship 
wharf, and which scaly crowd, as every traveller knows, 
are exactly alike all over the known world. “Allez vous 
cn,” sternly ordered the marquis to an officious hack-driver, 
who was energetically importuning him to accept a seat in 
his shabby old vehicle. Then grasping his daughter’s arm, 
and leaving the baggage to the valet, he said, (( Allons ! 
this vile, fish-smelling mob is worse than bilge-water and 
sea-sickness combined ; ” and under his vigorous marshalling 
they were soon driving toward the time-honored old Astor. 


320 


WHO WAS SHE? 


Mr. Colburn had important business to transact in Wash- 
ington, and they decided to visit the capital for a few 
weeks before going to Alden by the Pittsburg route. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

ABRAHAM LINCOLN’S LAST RECEPTION. 

Y OU have queened it in Europe, but for our democratic 
President’s reception to-night you are more queenly 
than ever, and you are i’obed like an empress,” cried Olive, 
on beholding Imogene arrayed for her first Washington 
reception. Her toilet was indeed superb — a magnificent 
white velvet, trimmed with white lace and scarlet satin 
ruchings. The ancestral diamonds of her house — gems of 
fabulous value — sparkling on neck, arms, and brow; the 
heart -and -serpent crest blazing in the tiara binding the 
black ringlets away from the noble forehead, were literal 
rays of light, and the lace and flowers rising and falling on 
her bosom were studded with costly jewels ; and she said to 
the heart beating beneath the lace, and flowers, and jewels: 

“ I mean to shine to-night ; for one will be there to -whom 
I want to look my rank, and show him it is as high as the 
heavens above his plebeian birth.” 

They were driven to the White House in the carriage of 
the French minister, who was a distant relative of the mar- 
quis. The most distinguished people in the land were 
there, and there, receiving the people, stood Abraham Lin- 
coln, sad of brow and grave of eye, the greatest, noblest, 
truest heart and mind beneath th^ sun. The seal of mar- 
tyrdom was even then on his sorrowful face, and the 
homely features, now so dear to us all, were almost within 
the shadow. Imogene had touched the hand of emperors, 


WHO WAS SHE? 


321 


dukes, and princes, but none were like the clasp of the good 
President — no look so benign as that of his sad eyes. She 
thought of it when the President’s hand was cold, and the 
assassin’s bullet lay above the kind eyes, buried in the 
grand brain — that in stilling the great, anxious, long-trou- 
bled heart, had “ found the tired spot.” 

Standing in the shade of the heavy curtains of the East 
Room, where the view was toward the Potomac, and the 
crowd promenading from parlor to parlor in a ceaseless 
tide did not infringe on their retirement, two gentlemen 
were conversing in a low tone, the one in a handsome court- 
dress, and the other in a full major-general’s uniform. It 
was Sir Frederick Bruce speaking* his companion listening 
in polite but abstracted attention. 

“You must not fail to make the acquaintance of the 
Marquis de la Vahl and his incomparable daughter. Old 
bachelors like you and I have a right to admire, if we 
don’t care to possess. After seeing her, you will say with 
me that there is but one woman in the world. Ah ! there 
they come with the Colburn party. I must pay my re- 
spects.” 

“ Gypsy ! ” The half-inaudible exclamation fell from 
General Shirley’s lips, before he could command the sud- 
den surprise of seeing her again, and that too under such 
completely reversed circumstances. Sir Frederic heard it. 

“ What, sir ? ” The general answered the diplomatist’s 
question by a command. “ Stay. I used to know the Col- 
burns. How came they in the train of this marquis and 
his daughter? ” 

“ Oh, there is a romance connected with it. I had the 
story from one of the legation yesterday. And they came 
in the suite of the French embassy this evening. A 
sad eloignement of some kind occurred between the mar- 
quis and his wife — he is not a saint in morals when 
this beautiful and only child was a mere infant ; and 


322 


WHO WAS SHE? 


broken-hearted, or disgusted, as it may be, she fled from 
France with her babe, came to America, and buried her- 
self from all who knew her in a little out-of-the-way Ohio 
village, and there meekly died, leaving the child to be 
brought up by the kind family who had befriended the 
mother, and all traces of her concealed from the father, 
who, so goes the story, ransacked the State from boundary 
to centre in search of her. When Mr. Colburn went abroad 
some years ago, Imogene Vale, as she was then known, was 
employed to accompany his daughter, at the time a great 
invalid, as a companion. By aid of a curious relic, left to 
her by her mother, she happened to discover a father in 
the noble marquis yonder, who proudly, and immediately 
acknowledged himself as such ; hence her present lofty 
position. She comes of a pure patrician stock. There is 
Bourbon blood in her veins, and no doubt the marquis in- 
tends to mate her with little less than royalty. That is the 
d^noHment of the romance. Will you be presented ? ” 

“No, I am not over-anxious. The noble marquis may 
not care to meet a rough-and-ready Yankee general of my 
type. Possibly I may do my devoirs later in the evening/* 
said Shirley, his face and manner impenetrable. 

Sir Frederick departed; and from his curtained nook 
Philip had the pleasure of seeing him place Imogene’s 
hand on his arm, and cavalierly lead her from the room. 

Sir Frederick Bruce was a gentleman, and his friend ; 
but Philip Shirley did not feel exactly right toward him 
after that, and inwardly cursed the knightly courtier for 
his exceeding admiration of Imogene. Vahl. Her predic- 
tion had been verified. She was above him — beautiful, 
elegant, and accomplished — heiress to a fortune a princess 
might envy, and the only child of a titled father. 

Philip turned his back to the gay groups sauntering 
hither and thither adown the East Boom, and wished it 
was not so — that she, as Gypsy, was a girl again, and he . 


WHO WAS SHE? 


323 


with a life to live over. And while he knit his brows and 
wished, Imogene and Sir Frederick were passing through 
the Blue Room and the Red Room to the private Presiden- 
tial parlor, where a select company about the open grand- 
piano were awaiting her: Imogene’s fame had preceded 
her, and she sat down before the instrument amid a hush 
of voices. The rustle of silks and flutter of fans grew 
silent, and everybody was on the tiptoe of expectation. 
It would certainly be something out of the common in the 
way of music, and the music-loving and music proficients 
were breathless. But what was their amazement, after a 
few slow notes, to hear the sweet, flexible, perfectly culti- 
vated voice begin to sing the simple, touching hymn, so 
dear a favorite of Mr. Lincoln : “Oh, why should the spirit 
of mortals be proud ? ” She knew the truthful simplicity 
of the Chief Magistrate listening at her side, and of them 
all she w T as singing alone for him. The grave, sad face of 
the President looked down upon her its mute, heartfelt 
thanks, the solemn, dark eyes misty, and the tall, gaunt 
frame trembling. The great soul in that angular body 
responded to the sentiment of the simple hymn as only the 
soul of such a man could, and Imogene felt that she was 
near the best and humblest ruler that ever held the 
supreme power of a nation or sat on the utmost height of 
earthly greatness. , The hymn dropped into fainter melody, 
and voice and instrument were still. By common consent 
no one stirred or spoke; fashion and folly, mirth and joy 
were mute. Mr. Lincoln shaded his brow with the large, 
strong hand that had scattered so many blessings, and now 
so near gathering the harvest in heaven that it had sown 
on earth, and for several minutes not a sound was audible 
in that vast assembly. Beating hearts and ticking watches 
alone told that humanity was present. The President was 
the first to move, and went off in a corner by himself, 
apparently to speak with Mr. Seward, the gray premier, 


324 WHO WAS SHE? 

at the other end of the room, but in reality to clear his 
vision. 

Imogene was induced to try her power again, and, after 
a moment of thoughtful hesitation, and a faint, doubtful 
prelude, a flood of exquisite melody poured from the 
vibrating instrument, a wild, triumphant jubilee that tin- 
gled to the fingers’ ends of the applauding audience, and 
dispelled the gloom of its predecessor. 

“ May I ask the name of this piece — it is new to me,” 
said Sir Frederick. 

“ I call it ‘ Peace,’ and there is no jeu de mot intended,” 
said Imogene, archly. 

And Olive took occasion to whisper aside to him : “It is 
her own composition, improvised on the whim of the mo- 
ment, and you have heard its birth and death at one and 
the same time.” 

When the victorious anthem was ended, Imogene looked 
up to find standing at the elbow of the English Ambassador 
Philip Shirley, intently gazing at her, as if he would read 
her soul, and know just how he was held there. The heart 
in her bosom stood still, but not a sign of its treachery 
paled her face, although a little color stole from her lips. 
She was aware that he made one of the changing throng 
surging through the spacious rooms, and when they met 
face to face she was mistress of her self-control. 

“ Your arm, Sir Frederick.” 

He offered it with alacrity. She smiled, and looked 
brightly back at Olive, on purpose that her gaze might 
cross his, and so prove to him that she was not afraid to 
meet his eye. Olive, innocent of the artifice, gave it little 
heed, however, for she had just discovered Philip, and, 
holding out both hands, came to meet him. 

“ Philip — General Shirley — I am so glad to see you ! ” 

“ Olive — Miss Colburn — is it possible ! How changed ! ” 

“You miss the crutches ; I left them in Europe — I trust, 


WHO WAS SHE? 


325 


forever. There is no excuse for being petted and humored 
now. But how I am running on! I quite overlook the fact 
that you are a famous general. ,, 

“ And I hope you always will. Take my arm ; perhaps 
we may find a secluded nook where we can talk of old 
times undisturbed by this Babel. ,, 

The secluded nook having been found and appropriated, 
Olive said : “We have been abroad a long while, and I am 
almost a stranger at Alden; but is it not more of to-day 
than yesterday you would know of, Philip ? ” 

“I knew the past would bring up the present,” he 
smiled. 

“ Wise Philip ! Well, the mystery is out now, so I sup- 
pose I am at liberty to speak. Imogene has been with us, 
and such a noble woman as she is ! She swore me to secrecy 
on the matter of leaving home before we were a day at sea, 
and, as papa was somewhat in her confidence, I did not 
object. And she was the idol of the French court before 
inheriting the prestige of her father’s name. In his youth 
the marquis was a bit wild, they say, but he is devotedly 
attached to Imogene, and loved her without dreaming that 
she was his daughter.” 

“ And is she still unmarried ? Pardon the curiosity, but 
you know she used to be a favorite of mine when she was 
in high aprons.” 

“ Married, no, nor even engaged ; and that is the stran- 
gest to me. Please consider what I say sub rosa. It is for 
the sake of those days when she was a pet of' yours in bibs 
that I impart the confidence. To be candid, I do not think 
Imogene has much conjugal love in her composition. That 
is, I don’t think she is quite capable of concentrating her 
entire affections on one being.” 

“ I presume not,” said Philip, dryly. “ Your perfectly 
beautiful women never are.” 

“ If I did not hate an argument above all things, I 
28 


326 


WHO WAS SHE? 


might be tempted to maintain the contrary ; but we were 
speaking of Imogene. Now, in Paris she had lords and 
dukes in plenty sighing at her feet. She had only to speak 
and she was a duchess or a marchioness ; but the very 
first look or hint of love from these lordly suitors ban- 
ished them. And now, General Shirley, if you are at all 
skilled in the heart’s diplomacy, tell me, why and how is 
this?” 

Philip was carefully examining his sword-hilt, but his 
mind was not so much absorbed in the scrutiny that he did 
not guess the motive little Olive had in bewailing Imo- 
gene’s lack of conjugal affinity. 

“ I am sure I have not the honor of being the keeper of 
Miss Yahl’s affections. Perhaps she prefers the admiration 
of many to the devotion of one.” 

“ Now, Philip, that is downright slander. There is not 
one atom of the coquette in her nature. She was a girl — 
a young country-bred child, as you may say — when I first 
saw her ; but, even then, she had the speech and manner 
of a woman who had tasted more than an ordinary share 
of a woman’s trouble; and, judging of her life since, she 
will, like myself, die an old maid. Ah, how old we are 
getting, Philip ! and only a little while ago you and she 
were playing among the buttercups and daisies away there 
in the West.” 

Philip was playing with the fringe of his sash, and a 
long in-drawn breath was the answer. 

After a pause, Olive asked archly : “ And are you still 
unmarried ? ” 

“Still companionless, and likely to remain so. I am 
such a preposterous object, and unprepossessing fellow 
generally, that I doubt few ladies could be found willing 
to accept me.” 

“Nonsense, Philip; you might take your pick of the 
fairest in the land.” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


327 


“Oh, yes; I know thousands of the best would eagerly 
marry General Shirley ; but who will marry me f ” 

“ True,” said Olive, unflatteringly ; “ but we are not all 
sordid creatures, and you may yet win a wife who will for- 
get, in her love for Philip, the brilliant general ; and, further- 
more, a woman’s pride in an object lies very near her love. 
That is a woman’s logic, and you are welcome to the hint.” 

Philip mused a moment, still fingering the silken fringe. 

“ There is a gentleman here you ought to know, Olive — 
a good brave fellow as ever lived, and true as steel — 
Colonel Murray, of my staff. I have known him for 
years.” 

“ Oh, I remember the name, and read of his being se- 
verely wounded in the same paper that falsely told us you 
were mortally in the same deplorable fix ; and, by the way, 
you should have seen Imogene that time. She tore the 
paper to fragments, and in a fury pronounced it a detest- 
able falsehood, as it turned out to be.” 

“ Do you think my death would have caused her a 
pang ? ” he asked, more eagerly than he was aware. Olive 
did not fail to make the most of his anxiety. 

“ I think it would have broken her heart, or that part 
of it which is not already broken. Now make the most of 
that, and introduce me to your good, brave colonel. He 
will relieve you of me, which will give you an opportunity 
to renew your acquaintance with Imogene. I know no- 
thing, but by putting two and two together, I am able to 
guess a good deal. There, don’t say I am not your friend 
hereafter, and see that you profit by my friendship,” 
laughed Olive ; and they went over to where Colonel Mur- 
ray was standing disconsolate and alone. “ Colonel Mur- 
ray, this is Miss Olive Colburn, a dear old friend of mine, 
who took pity on your loneliness, and comes as a comfort 
and a solace. I leave her to your care, and mind that you 
obey orders.” And in a wonderful rebound of spirits Phi- 


328 


WHO WAS SHE? 


lip disappeared in the throng, feeling grateful toward Olive, 
and not so murderous toward Sir Frederick. 

As for Colonel Murray, he never felt himself so tall and 
awkward in his life. Neither his hands nor his feet would 
keep still, and his voluble tongue did not know what to 
say. And little Olive, insomuch as he was good and brave, 
and true as steel, gave him the full benefit of her kind gray 
eyes, that might have confused him still more, only that 
she at the same moment laid her hand assuringly on his 
arm, and proposed a turn down the East Room. Twice the 
length of the long apartment considerably revived his 
sinking soul. He was getting used to the eyes, and the 
voice, and the hand, and rather liked it ; and would have 
tramped all night if Olive had not suggested that a seat in 
the curtained embrasure of the window near by would be 
acceptable. 

“And so you are an old friend of the general’s ?” said 
Murray, trusting to instinct to say the right thing. 

“ Yes,” she laughed ; “ and expect you to give a full and 
valid account of him since the years you have known him 
better than I. It seems to me, who knew him in franker 
days, that he has grown sombrous and cynical.” 

“ We of his personal staff stand somewhat in awe of his 
temper, and never provoke a rage or a reprimand by ask- 
ing questions ; and although I have known him so long, 
his nature is locked to me as to the rest of the world,” cau- 
tiously replied the well-disciplined colonel. 

“ On guard, I see. Was my question rude?” said Olive, 
contritely. 

“ Oh, no. But the fact is, the general is pretty much of 
a thunder-cloud, bi»t he occasionally favors me with a 
glimpse of blue sky, and I would not like to say anything 
that might be prejudicial to his really rare and noble na- 
ture. He is not communicative, and has his faults and 
failings, but they are second to the many good qualities of 


WHO WAS SHE? 


329 


his heart. But this is treason, and he will have me court- 
martialed for so freely ventilating his private character in 
the field.” 

Olive commended his devotion, and together they went 
in search of the marquis and his daughter. 

Through the kindness of Sir Frederick, Philip was pre- 
sented to the marquis, who cordially offered his hand, and 
in turn said : “ My daughter, General Shirley.” 

Imogene coldly gave him the tips of her gloved fingers, 
and a cool look that very near approached a stare. It 
froze him instantly, and his face was as cold as her touch. 

“ I believe I have met General Shirley before, but it had 
nearly escaped my recollection. Life crowds faces out 
of one’s memory so fast,” she said lightly, and swept 
on with her father ; and with her frigid look and cutting 
words rankling deep, Philip left the room also. 

“ Plow foolish ! ” thought Olive. “ Constrained, and over- 
done. They crossed swords like icebergs. She is as cold 
as a polar sea, and he — well, none are so blind as those 
who will not see,- and, although I am no poet, I have made 
a rhyme. She deserves a scolding, and I am just in the 
frame of mind to do it.” 

Catching her alone, she said : “ I am surprised at your 
treatment of General Shirley. As a distinguished soldier 
of the country he has done so much to save, he certainly 
merits ordinary respect and deference to his great fame, 
that even you, Imogene, ought not to refuse.” 

“ Pray, spare me, Olive, I never was a hero-worshipper. 
These military lions are so suggestive of powder, and they 
get so hardened. Everything is uniform here to-night. 
Everybody is a major-general. I have been presented to a 
score, and they all have that death-defying look that I so 
dislike in Philip Shirley.” 

“ Oh, Imogene, how you are masking ! Don’t think to 
deceive me. He was ready to be amiable, but a man of 

28 * 


330 WHO WAS SHE? 

any sort of spirit must have congealed under your pointed 
sarcasm.” 

“Never mind his congealing. There he is, in the door- 
way of the Green Room. Go and console him. There is 
another old friend of mine here to-night, whose nature and 
profession I admire more — Thaddeus Ruggles, the recently 
elected Oregon senator. His delving has brought, indeed, 
a rich reward, and there are no blood-stains on his fame. 
He is coming this way. He is my beau-ideal of what a man 
should be. You will be glad to meet Mr. Ruggles.” She 
knew Philip was watching her, and took great pains to be 
extremely cordial to the reserved senator. 

“ This is Miss Olive Colburn, the lady I have been abroad 
with, Thaddeus. I may call you by the old familiar Thad, 
I presume, and not transgress set conventionalities, for we 
were brought up brother and sister.” 

Honest old Thad had too little insight into female char- 
acter to divine that he was being thus warmly noticed for 
the sole purpose of annoying Philip. The newly fledged 
senator was a babe to such chicanery, and expressed his 
thanks for her warm memory of one whom, in those pa- 
thetically referred to brother-and-sister-days, had certainly 
never appreciated or been appreciated as kindly as now. 

“ Have you met General Shirley yet ? ” 

“ No ; but I am told he is here. I have have not seen 
him for years — not since that great episode in Davie’s life, 
the party — and .would scarcely know him.” 

“ There he is, making his adieus to the President. The 
tall officer to the left is General Sherman.” And while 
Thaddeus was looking in the direction indicated, Olive ma- 
liciously whispered : “You are overdoing the thing, and 
Philip is laughing at you.” 

Imogene glanced after the senator’s eyes, and saw Philip 
biting his lips to hide a genuine laugh. He caught the 
quickly averted look of chagrin, returned it by a half kind, 


WHO WAS SHE? 


331 


half triumphant smile, that she might construe, as the 
inclination suited, into careless indifference, or a first ad- 
vance toward a final reconciliation, and, turning on his 
heel, left the White House. 

“ When do you go to Alden ?” said Thaddeus. 

“ Soon.” 

The answ r er was so coldly laconic that Mr. Ruggles was 
surprised, but Imogene did not mean to be either cold or 
laconic. She was thinking of something else, and vexed 
that Philip should smile in that provoking, self-confident 
way, just because she was familiar with Thaddeus, and 
showed that she was glad to see him. “ Oh, you spoke 
about Alden. Yes, I am going when the spring is a little 
more advanced.” 

“And so am I. I am going home to marry Davie.” 

“ Oh, Thaddeus ! ” Imogene glanced at the grave face 
w T ith new interest. It was forty years old, but, with all the 
toil and study, it looked younger than Philip’s. It was 
grave, but had none of his severity. It was manly and 
bearded, but it- had none of his hardness and bronze, and 
she could remember when Philip’s was the gentler and the 
tenderest. Somehow the comparison pained her. What 
right had Time to wrinkle the brow of the soldier and 
leave the brow of the older lawyer smooth and white? 
And the auburn locks — they were thick and burnished and 
youthful. The auburn brown eyes, steady and thoughtful, 
mirrored no soul-burden. He had labored to obtain dis- 
tinction, and was envious of fame in a different way than 
Philip. His ambition was of a different type, and in heart 
and intellect he had travelled another road to get it. He 
had plodded and read and studied until his life-chart was 
fairly traced. He had quietly walked into fame’s temple, 
and taken a seat without noise or crowding, and at forty 
was going home to marry Davie. Philip had dashed to 
greatness, took it by storm, and held the dazzling trophy 


332 


WHO WAS SHE? 


to the world that men might see what one master-mind 
could accomplish ; but in his heart he threw the glory 
down, and bitterly cried, “ The thing is not worth the sac- 
rifice.” Thaddeus had won to enjoy, Philip to abrogate. 
“ Going home to marry Davie/’ The words kept recurring 
to Imogene long after she had left the brilliant assemblage 
that graced President Lincoln’s last private levee. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


SHIRLEY VENTURES ON A FORLORN HOPE, AND MURRAY 
SEEKS A DOMESTIC ALTAR. 

HE solemn obsequies of the martyred President were 



_L over. In universal grief and deepest emblems of mourn- 
ing, the nation had laid away its murdered chief. Illinois 
received back her great, good son. Springfield sepulchred 
“ Honest Abe,” honest as when she sent him forth, and all 
that was left of Mr. Lincoln was history. 

And since the now memorable levee, Imogene had not 
met Philip. The recollection of his triumphant smile still 
rankled, and she longed for a sight of Ruth and Davie, 
and, in making her preparations for the journey, had said 
to the marquis, “ Follow me in a week, papa, but I want 
to go back, as I departed, alone.” To this the marquis 
could but agree, and the evening before her departure she 
sat reading alone in their private parlor at Willard’s, when 
a servant entered and announced “ General Shirley ; will 
you see him ? ” The skilful officer, having some knowledge 
of Miss Imogene’s obduracy, did not leave the matter of 
seeing him or not seeing him optional, for he was close at 
the heels of the servant, and not stopping to note the 


WHO WAS SHE? 


333 


amazement of that obsequious worthy, he immediately en- 
tered the room ; and the servant, considering the question of 
his mistress being at home settled, submissively withdrew. 

It was a perilous moment? Imogene summoned a most 
chilling demeanor, and, rising as she spoke, said politely, 
but coldly, “ Miss Colburn is not at home ; will you leave 
a message ? ” 

“No, thank you, I will wait!” She was unprepared 
for this sort of manoeuvring, and taking no further no- 
tice of him, resumed her seat, and returned again to her 
book, which must have been highly interesting, for she 
seemed wholly absorbed in its contents, to the entire neglect 
of the distinguished caller. The shaded gas-jet, held in the 
mailed hand of a bronze Csesar on the table beside her, ap- 
peared rather dim, she thought, and she was not exactly 
sure whether the fascinating book was upside-down or not. 
She wore a rich pearl-colored silk, that lay all around her 
in shining waves broken on the violets and lilies of the 
carpet by the red velvet cushion at her feet. As Philip . 
had no book and could not sit still, he began to pace up 
and down the floor as if he were taking its dimensions, and 
was very particular about it, and thus perambulating, fif- 
teen minutes elapsed — she intent on the book without once 
looking up, but all the while she was counting the quick, 
regular steps, and knew when the measured tread stopped 
before her. Philip was in plain-citizen dress, — sword, 
sash, shoulder-straps, and buttons were not, and perhaps 
she liked him better so. He was in faultless evening cos- 
tume. The one rapid glance told her that, and the absence 
of gold and glitter was an actual relief, and there was a 
sweet, nameless odor about him quite unlike powder. If 
Philip had a weakness it was for fragrant perfumes, and 
the secret of this especial and favorite one had been be- 
queathed to him by an old French captain who had only 
parted with it in death. It was delicate, and subtilely 


334 


WHO WAS SHE? 


fragrant, and stole over her senses like the delicious scent 
of dewy garden-roses. With compressed lips and folded 
arms Philip looked down upon her, and unbidden the lus- 
trous dark eyes left the pages and went slowly up to his. 
She could not help it — if she were to die she could not help 
it. The full dark eyes met the sharper black, but neither 
spoke, nor smiled, nor stirred. It was the gaze of a charmed 
bird, and possessing the will, she had not the power to with- 
draw it. 

“ Gypsy ! ” There was a heart-burst of anguish in the 
single utterance, and throwing himself on the cushion at 
her feet, he pillowed his head in her lap, and cried as he 
did at Elinor’s knee. The great drops splashing the pearl- 
silk robe, made Philip Shirley greater to her than all his 
victories. Pride, perversity — everything gave way before 
this one grand feeling, and he whose simple word had sent 
a whole army into action and held a nation in suspense, 
sobbed like a child at the feet of the woman whose love 
he had in years agone deliberately thrown away, that he 
might the sooner climb the dizzy heights from which his 
tears now fell, eloquently telling that all beside it was 
nothing. 

She did not speak, but her hands crept down his face until 
the white fingers locked under his chin, and the white arm 
against his cheek was as soft as the silken sleeve shimmer- 
ing its lace trimming amid the black of his crisp hair. 
After all, it was Philip’s face, and she could not be harsh 
with it. The touch was familiar, and the outline from 
brow to throat the same that her girlhood had loved. And 
her voice, oh ! it was very sweet, and low, and pitiful. 

“ When a soldier like you can find a place in his soul 
where the tears are not dry, a woman should not scorn to 
weep, but I cannot ; they scorched up my heart and parched 
my brain long ago. It is long since we parted, you and I, 
Philip, and both are changed. There are lines of care 


WHO WAS SHE? 


335 


on your forehead and silver threads in your hair that were 
not there when I saw it last. Ah ! ambition will have its 
revenge!” She smoothed the few “silver threads,” the 
soft, open palm moving aimless, half unconscious of its own 
motion. “I do not recognize my old ideal in this prema- 
ture age, and you are only thirty-six. We will forget and 
forgive, and then let eternal silence settle between us for- 
ever.” 

“A curse on my cowardly weakness ! ” he cried, starting 
up and throwing off the caressing hands. “ Forget ! oh, 
would to God I could forget; but I am not a love-sick 
schoolboy to be mocked. I hate myself that I should so 
whimper out my feelings.” 

“ You have won magnificent victories, Philip, but this is 
your greatest.” 

“ And you can say it unmoved ? ” 

“I can say it unmoved, but thankfully, for it has made 
me human again. I have conquered self, too ; and to con- 
fess it, is not weakness — it is strength.” 

“ I have humbled myself : will it bring perfect peace 
and forgiveness between us?’ 

“ Perfect peace and forgiveness, Philip.” 

“And I may hope — ” 

“Nothing more. Some things, although forgiven, are 
yet unreconcilable, and that is one of them. It is useless 
to urge me differently. I have my father, and you the rich 
reward of your ambition. We have both gained what we 
longed and toiled for, and they must satisfy, for there is 
nothing left in life for us who made so ill use of its morn- 
ing. It is now meridian, and our thoughts must be of the 
evening.” 

“ Don’t drive me to desperation,” he cried, making a turn 
of the room, and coming back more composed to hold out 
his arms entreatingly. “ Will you come, Imogene ? I am 
sorry, I am sorry for all I ever said, did, or thought. Will 


336 


WHO WAS SHE? 


you come ? ” She strangled the mighty temptation urging 
her to his bosom, and was resolute. 

“No” 

The extended arms fell to his side, and Imogene calmly 
arose to leave the room. 

“ Woman ! ” he said hoarsely, seizing her forcibly by the 
shoulder, “you have had your triumph and enjoyed it. 
You have looked at my mangled heart and jeered it. You 
have seen and felt my tears, and only one dead woman 
from boyhood until now, could ever say the same of Philip 
Shirley ; and while I am suffering and tearing my soul for 
you, you sit serene and smiling, enjoying my misery, and 
looking the placid lady.” 

She did not shrink from his fierce grasp. 

“ Ah, now I recognize you ! Philip ; I know this mood, 
and it does not offend me.” 

This was too much. 

“ I have controlled thousands and I will control you. 
Answer me, and no prevarications: will nothing I can 
do or say in expiation of the past induce you to alter your 
determination ? ” 

“Nothing. I was nurtured in a hard school, yourself 
the teacher. You sacrificed me, and, which is far worse, my 
mother’s virtue, to your selfish ambition. You are in the 
proud niche where only a few stand. You wear an un- 
conquerable sword and bear a deathless name — is it not 
enough ? ” 

“ But they are worthless without you.” 

“ Once you thought I was worthless beside them.” 

“ Don’t taunt me with that most wretched past. I ’ve 
lived beyond it. Let my faithful manhood win me some- 
thing. Let it win what the foolish, short-sighted boy 
madly rejected.” 

“ I would have spared you this, Philip. Let me go, and 
believe me yours is not all the pain.” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


337 


He had never seen a look so utterly sad in those beau- 
tiful eyes before, so resigned and helpless, and he took 
courage. 

“ Answer me one question, only one, and let it be all the 
truth. Do you love me yet, Imogene?” 

“As I do my beloved dead.” 

fie turned away to hide the emotion the sad, solemn an- 
swer called forth, and when he looked up she was gone. 

In her room Imogene thought, “ I am not equal to an- 
other such interview. I feel it, and it is well that I go to- 
morrow. But it seems pleasant to be scolded and threat- 
ened and coaxed by him. It brings the old times and 
Davie nearer. Ah, she little thinks I am coming with the 
June blossoms. Let me see — if I go there to-morrow, I 
shall arrive there on the anniversary pf my flitting, and 
that will be the fifth of the month — my fate day.” 

On the following day Philip called to pay his respects 
to Miss Colburn, for it had struck him that his unceremo- 
dious departure the evening before was not, according to 
the rules of good society, strict etiquette, and was informed 
by Olive that Imogene had left town. 

“Now, Philip,” said she, significantly, “you are not a 
skilful general when Cupid is in the field, if you allow him 
to advance and retreat in this trifling and impudent way. 
A close siege, and you might make your own terms. One 
repulse is nothing, and there is nothing like dear, old asso- 
ciations to break a woman’s pride. I think a trip to Alden 
would greatly benefit you.” 

“You are clever at propounding, and I at guessing rid- 
dles.” 

He shook Olive’s two little hands as if she had done him 
an exceeding good turn, looking wonderfully encouraged, 
cut his morning call short, and hurried away, to run against 
Colonel Murray in the hall, both rushing in opposite direc- 
tions as fast as love could propel them. 

29 


338 


WHO WAS SHE? 


Olive received the colonel most graciously, and invited 
him to a seat on the sofa beside her. But the colonel did 
not do important business from a side view, and, instead, 
drew a chair in direct range of the steel-gray eyes, sitting 
bolt upright on the extreme edge of his chair, like a man 
who had made up his mind to a stern and desperate pur- 
pose, and, blunt and compact as a round shot, made known 
his desires : 

“ I have known you two months, and I love you. Will 
you marry me, Olive ? ” 

Such a point-blank, unexpected shot struck Miss Olive 
dumb, and the colonel, taking advantage of her silence, 
hitched into a little closer range, and took her unresisting 
hand. This was a change of position that brought out her 
reserve. 

“ Are you in earnest, colonel ?” 

“In dead sure earnest, Olive. I have said it in plain 
English, and I want the same kind of an answer. I am a 
blunt, rough old soldier, and don’t understand any other 
language.” 

“ But what on earth do you want of such a little, useless 
old maid as I ? ” 

“ I want a wife of her.” 

“And what will you do with me?” 

“Love you all my life,” promptly responded the bluff 
officer. 

“ I am little fitted to be a soldier’s wife.” 

“ I ’ll risk it,” said the brave Walter, cheerfully. “ I am 
not afraid to anchor my heart with you. I ’ve been drifting 
about so long without home or love, that you will not deny 
me a place in your heart, Olive, when you fill all of mine.” 

“ It is so very sudden and unlooked for, although I con- 
fess I— I thought you were not altogether indifferent. It 
is like one of your bold charges-— so unexpected — I can 
hardly answer,” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


339 


“ My bold charges are always successful. Ask Shirley. 
About how long do you think it will take you to consider 
it ? ” anxiously inquired the unprocrastinating colonel. 

“ Oh, a week.” 

“A week! I should die with suspense.” He hitched a 
little nearer. “ May I kiss you, Olive ? ” 

“Yes.” 

Olive held her head very straight while granting this 
Solemn request, and the colonel looked a trifle sheepish. 

“ I don’t understand making love by fashionable rules.” 

“You do very well for a novice,” commented Olive; 
and, guided by that unerring instinct which was his main 
reliance, the saucy fellow neglected to remove his arm from 
about her waist, and she neglected to lift her head from his 
shoulder, for, by some hocus-pocus known only in love’s 
bewildering jugglery, he had established himself on the 
sofa, and was progressing swimmingly toward a speedy 
“ domestic altar.” 

“ I ’ve got a secret,” she said, naively. 

“ Thunder ! ” He did not mean to be rude, but it slipped 
out unintentionally. 

“ About a century ago I — I loved somebody — I loved 
Philip Shirley. It was a sickly flame, and died out of 
itself.” 

“And he — ” 

“ Never knew it.” 

The colonel felt immensely relieved. He did not relish 
running athwart his general in a love affair. 

“ He never cared three straws for me, save as my father’s 
daughter. I was lame then ; and I am lame yet, Walter,” 
she said, lowering her cheek to the colonel’s row of brass 
buttons. “ Do you mind?” 

“ Not a bit. Go on,” giving her an assuring hug. 

“Yes, I was very lame, so that I was forced to go on 
crutches, and was almost helpless. Have n’t I scared you 


340 


WHO WAS SHE? 


yet ? ” (assuring hug again ;) “ and Philip was kind. He was 
always kind to girls, and I was alone, shut from the world 
and congenial companionship, gloomy and brooding over 
my wretched lot ; and when he came into my life, strong, 
gentle, and brave, I went to dreaming about him, as a girl 
of my secluded and joyless existence naturally would, and 
it lasted two years/’ 

“A long dream,” parenthetically remarked the colonel. 
“Any more like it?” 

“ No, that was my first and last, and he never suspected 
it ; for he had been loving a beautiful face all his life, and 
is loving it yet.” 

“ Whose face is it ? ” 

“ Oh, that is not my secret, and so you cannot have it. 
Philip is not what he was in those days, and now I could 
not love him. The first look I gave him after my long 
absence — I had him ideally shrined in Paris, and thought 
the great general was like the boy captain of my heart — 
made me wonder how I ever did. One of his harsh, cross 
looks would frighten me to death.” 

“ And I have a secret too, Olive.” 

“ Oh, goodness ! ” 

“ I had a passion for a girl once, and it stuck by me 
from my cadet days up to within two months ago, when I 
met another dainty little creature, and Olive Colburn laid 
the ghost of the past forever.” 

“A rather adhesive passion, I should say,” said Olive, 
slyly. 

“ Yes ; I proposed — she rejected me. She feared a lieu- 
tenant’s pay, and, by Jove, it is enough to frighten a timid 
woman, who is fond of silk dresses and spring bonnets ! 
That was a sweet dream, but this is a sweeter reality.” 

You may be sure the emphasized “this” was properly 
demonstrated in such a manner that Olive could not mis- 
take as to whom it referred. Then there were more kisses, 


WHO WAS SHE? 


341 


and slightly inaudible murmurs of “ darling, sweetest, dear- 
est,” and the upshot of it all was that Olive Colburn at 
thirty-five was irredeemably engaged to that confirmed old 
bachelor, Walter Murray, of forty-one honored years, spent 
in the turmoils of war's rude alarms. 

The happy colonel flew at once to his general, helped 
himself to a cigar, put his feet on the table, and hurled at 
him the mighty change that had come upon him. 

“ I am going to be married, general.” 

“ The deuce you are ! ” 

“ Yes, I am plighted to Olive Colburn ; congratulate me.” 

“ With all my heart. She is a dear, kind girl, and will 
make a charming, kind, good wife. I knew her when she 
was frail as a baby, with a cheek and hand of wax. I used 
to carry her about the grounds at Colburn Hall, and she 
liked me, and was so grateful in return.” 

“ Yes; I know she was,” said Murray, dryly. “ But 
when am I to congratulate you?” 

“ When time goes backward, and I am a boy again, 
proud of my cadet straps.” 

“ Phew ! that ’s certainly indefinite ; but good-by, I’ll see 
you again to-morrow.” 

“ No you don’t. I leave town to-night.” 

“Halloo, what’s up?” 

“Oh, a whiff of country air; that’s all. I wish you joy 
of your bride-elect, and, as those dear pledges of ‘ import- 
ance and respectability ’ that you once included in your 
visions of matrimony must be provided for, I now promote 
vou General Murray by brevet, and chief of staff.” 

Murray was nearly beside himself. 

“ By Jupiter, general, you are the right man in the 
right place this time, any way ; and if those premature 
pledges are not grateful, I’ll thrash the little rascals into 
gratitude.” 

Shirley laughed, the only real laugh the colonel had 
29 * 


342 


WHO WAS SHE? 


ever been so fortunate as to hear from Philip, and motioned 
him out. 

Olive sought her father and said, blushing as if she 
were not thirty-five : 

“ Colonel Murray will see you this evening, and what- 
ever he may say, papa, my heart will respond to.” 

“And so, Olive, you have stolen a march on your old 
father, and the tall officer will ask for my daughter?” 

A rosy face hid its bloom and tears on his breast, and 
Lot Colburn was willing that the tall officer should have her. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE D^NOtlMENT ASTOUNDS DAVIE. 

BRIGHT June afternoon welcomed Imogene’s arrival 



J3l to Alden, and from the platform, gloomy and wet the 
night of her flight, she hurried to gain the highway lead- 
ing past the Lee farm house, without giving a glance to the 
people sauntering about the depot, and lolling on the storfr 
stoops and hotel piazzas in indolent, curious village style. 
Once out of sight she slackened her pace and strolled along 
the grassy roadside, all the fields and hills and trees as fa- 
miliar as the faces of old friends. She stopped before the 
old rock, and looked up at its gray summit as if it must 
know her footsteps. The hickory leaves, trembling in the 
soft current of the upper air, were motionless on the lower 
branches, green and tender and not yet full grown, but 
checkering the grass where the shadows played over it in 
the same flickering, uncertain, and frolicking way her 
childhood remembered so well. The hazel thicket seemed 
denser and the white blossoms of the rank elders more 


WHO WAS SHE? 343 

abundant than when she played with Philip beneath their 
tangled shade. 

“ I petrified here,” she said, drawing off her glove to 
gather a few buttercups and clovers growing in the crook 
of the fence. “ I lost heart, faith, and God, and have 
never found them since.” When she came in sight of the 
old brown house the sun was just setting, and the last red 
rays bathed in splendor the green south meadows, and 
lighted the small panes of the narrow west windows to gold 
and scarlet, gorgeous and dazzling as the prism’s coloring. 
Imogene paused outside the gate to note the little figure 
sitting in the open doorway : Davie, at her everlasting 
worsted-work — a sumptuous affghan of many hues — a 
pile of bright wools in her lap — placid, sunny, untroubled 
Davie, quietly sitting on the old door-stone of the old 
home, careless and happy as in her girlhood. Thaddeus 
w T as coming home to marry Davie, and this was the sweet 
bride-elect of Senator Ruggles. The watcher at the gate 
came up the walk under the maples, and the worker 
looked up. 

“ Davie ! ” 

“ Imogene ! ” 

In a second the bright worsteds were scattered all over 
the door-stone and half-way to the gate in Davie’s haste to 
meet her, and the two sisters in heart, if not in blood, were 
again united. Neither could speak for several minutes. 

“ I did not think you would know me, Davie,” said Imo- 
gene, holding her off to get a better look of her happy face. 
“ You are not a bit changed.” 

“ Nor you. I should know you anywhere ; and to take 
me so by surprise,” returned Davie, wiping her eyes and 
picking up the worsteds. “Old Mrs. Johnson is dead, all 
the folks have gone to the funeral, and won’t be back this 
hour. Ain’t you ’most tired to death, and hungry, too ? 
I ’ll run and tell Hetty to put the kettle on.” 


344 who was she! 

Davie flew to the kitchen and was back again in a twink- 
ling. 

“ There, I ’ve hurried up Hetty, and you shan’t perish 
of hunger. Now, tell us all about it. Let me take off 
your things. You were so cruel not to write oftener, and 
so tantalizingly brief. What a dear little bonnet ! I know 
you have lots to tell, and I am dying to hear.” 

“ It is all comprised in five words, Davie. I have found 
my father.” 

“ Well, now !” 

Miss Lee could say no more, and fell back in astonish- 
ment to recover her breath, and then Imogene concisely 
related the whole story, frequently interrupted by her lis- 
tener’s ejaculations of wonderment. 

At the conclusion, Davie said mysteriously : 

“ I have something to tell you, too, not quite so romantic, 
but it inclines that way ; wait till we are snug up stairs, 
and we will talk until morning. It is so funny ; I laugh 
myself every time I think of it.” 

This funny secret would doubtless have exploded in 
Davie’s loose keeping before the up-stair snugness had been 
achieved, if David and his wife had not, at the perilous 
juncture, drove up. 

“ Hide, Genie ; I ’ll tell mamma a stranger wants to see 
her, and see if she will know you,” she cried, in a flutter of 
excitement, hustling Imogene into the parlor. 

Being so summarily disposed of, Genie ran to the window, 
and peeping from behind the corner of the curtain, saw 
them alight, remarking that neither were as nimble as 
when she saw them last. 

Davie, in the adjoining room, could scarcely contain 
herself, and ran down the path to meet her mother, before 
that good lady’s skirts had fairly cleared the wheel. 

Of course, just coming from solemnizing the last rites of 
the venerable Mrs. Johnson, Ruth was not in a particularly 


WHO WAS SHE? 


345 


hilarious mood, and was quite shocked at her daughter’s 
superabundant activity of hands and feet and tongue. 

“ Hurry, mamma ! I ’ll take off your bonnet. Ah, never 
mind, it won’t hurt, and there is some one in the parlor 
anxious to see you.” 

“ Davie, child!” 

“ I know, mamma ; poor old lady ! ” 

“You should be — ” 

“ Glad she is at rest ; ” and she pushed the shocked Ruth 
along, heedless of the funeral news, that would otherwise 
have riveted her best attention. 

“Aunt Ruth, I have come home at last. Did I so dese- 
crate your love that you can give me no blessing ? ” 

Mrs. Lee sank into a chair, and Imogene fell on her 
knees at her feet, and a kind, trembling hand dropped 
light on her head. 

“ Lord, thou hast heard my prayer — the one long prayer 
for this girl since she left me ! Elinor, I have kept the 
covenant, and in heart have never deserted her.” Her 
face hid its mingled tears and emotion on the wanderer’s 
shoulder, bowed to meet the offered kiss, and for the space 
of five holy minutes nothing was heard but Davie’s soft 
crying by the window. 

David’s voice broke the hush. “Hello, black-eyes as 
I live ! and not too great a lady to kiss old David, I know.” 

The old farmer took her away from his wife, and gave 
her a smack so loud and long, that Davie covered her 
weeping eyes with one hand and her laughing mouth with 
the other, and sat her on his knee. Mother and daughter 
gathered around him, and huddled together. They all 
kissed, and cried, and hugged each other — only Imogene 
did not cry, but the choking in her throat was so painful, 
and her eyes so burning, that she almost fainted under the 
stifling feeling. 

It was over at last, with the tea and talk that necessarily 


346 


WHO WAS SHE? 


and naturally follows a reunion of the kind ; and Davie 
was at liberty to drag Genie off up stairs, and, in the full 
consciousness of its greatness, divulge the funny secret. 

Imogene no sooner found herself in the familiar apart- 
ment than she ran to the window. 

“Well, I declare,” said Davie, remonstratingly, “you 
are back to the old lookout, and I am aching to make 
weighty disclosures, and ask a hundred questions. Would 
you see me burst in ignorance?” 

“ I have not the hardness to disregard so touching an 
appeal,” replied Genie, composing herself to listen. “ Go 
on ; I am not blase of secrets yet.” 

Davie, who delighted in a tragic coup de main above all 
things, folded her hands in a reverent attitude, and sol- 
emnly said : 

“ Imogene, I am engaged.” 

“ I know it.” 

“Who told you?” 

“Oh, a little bird sang me a song, and I found that 
warble in it.” 

“A naughty, tattling bird. But you can’t guess who he 
is — or did your songster sing that too?” 

“ Yes, Thaddeus Ruggles. I wish you joy — oh, dear little 
Davie, long years of joy! ” 

Davie looked disappointed, but warmly returned her kiss 
of congratulation. Instead of astonishing, she had been 
astonished. 

“ A plague on that bird ! It has forestalled me, and now 
I have nothing to tell ; only I ’d like to know how you found 
out my funny secret,” lugubriously bemoaned Thad’s affi- 
anced, the picture of mystification. 

“I have been at Washington for something like two 
months.” 

“And did not write? that is too bad of you.” 

“ Don’t scold. I wanted to take you by surprise, and I 


WHO WAS SHE? 347 

had been in the habit of writing so seldom ; besides, I had a 
fancy to make my coming and going an anniversary.” 

“You are forgiven. Proceed. I am interested in that 
gossiping bird.” 

“ Why, you have guessed, of course. Thaddeus told me, 
one evening at a gay levee, where I happened to stumble on 
him, and in the coolest manner possible : ‘ 1 am going home 
to marry Davie/ as quietly as if marrying Davie was an 
every-day occurrence.” 

“ Oh ! the wretch, to be so flippant. I ’m half a mind to * 
jilt him,” pouted Davie. 

“You are mistaken ; he was not flippant, and not in the 
least lucid. He left the most to conjecture, for that was all 
he said on the subject, word for word. He is a rising man, 
and you will be a distinguished personage in Washington 
when Miss Lee is transformed into Mrs. Ruggles.” 

“ I am sure I never thought of that part of it. You see, 
Genie, Thad came home about a year ago, and — and, well 
I’ve always liked him, although he is quite a paternal 
lover. Not exactly the sort of feeling I had for Phil, you 
know ; but it does very well ; and as I have no better for 
anybody else, I dare say it will do nicely. What a ridicu- 
lous affair that was, though, with Philip,” merrily laughed 
the little witch. 

“ By the way, I ought not to speak so familiarly of our 
ci-devant village pest. Who could have believed that he 
would have blossomed out into a full-blown prince of gen- 
erals? Alden is very proud of him now, and people are 
vain of the pranks he played on them, and anything he 
ever touched is sacredly treasured by those so lucky as to 
have anything once possessed by him. Philip a great sol- 
dier, and you a titled lady of France ! How strangely 
things do turn out ! ” 

“And why not add, ‘And I a to-be sedate senator’s 
lady ? ’ ” suggested Imogene. 


348 


WHO WAS SHE? 


“ Oh, I am not, nor never shall be anybody but Davie, 
though Thad goes on patronizing me for a century. Iam 
one of the fixed planets, and can’t get out of my orbit if I 
should try, for I would not know where to go to. Poor 
Thad ! He is very grave and severe. I vow, I feel quite 
patriotic just thinking of it. And he so wise and learned, 
and I that never even read the Constitution that he has so 
pat, and remember but one line of the Declaration of In- 
dependence, and that I learned at school as a punishment 
• for a lesson I did not get. Goodness, how I suffered over that 
one obligatory research into my country’s intricate history ! 
I shall never forget it. ‘All men are, and of right ought 
to be, free and independent’ — that’s the line, anjl very true, 
too. Now, Thad knows all the rest of it, just as well as I 
do this scrap. He need not fear my ever crowding him 
from the rostrum.” 

“ So long as there are books for Thaddeus, and worsted 
for you, Davie, your talents will not clash,” consoled 
Imogene. 

“ I suppose not. But did you ever realize that you and 
I are genuine old maids, passed the Rubicon two years ago? 
A melancholy fact that the family - record in the Bible 
won’t allow of contradiction.” 

“ Yes, I realize it, but do not regret it,” said Genie. 

“ Indeed, you are a wonder. It frightened me, or did 
until Thad had the grace to propose. Now, tell me honest, 
are you not engaged ? ” 

“ No, Davie.” 

“ But you had offers ? ” 

“ I will not deny that while you were inveigling a sena- 
tor, I was somewhat admired.” 

“No equivocating. Were there no out-and-out offers, 
from princes to counts ? I don’t suppose you would notice 
anything less. I have unbosomed myself, and you should 
be as generous.” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


349 


“ I made a slight impression on a few hearts, but nothing 
serious, I assure you ; but there is a certain Duke de Char- 
lier, whom papa urges me to consider favorably, but I shall 
not, further than esteem and friendship goes.” 

“ Dukes are not plenty,” said Davie, warningly. 

“ I know it ; and beside, he is a noble and most worthy 
man.” 

“ Mystery on mystery ! And why not accept the noble 
paragon ? ” 

“ Only that I do not love him ; and should I be so sordid 
as to permit his rank to dazzle me and count love out, I 
could not marry him. No, Davie; under any circum- 
stances it wdtild be utterly impossible.” 

“And why?” 

“ Because I am Philip Shirley’s wife!” 

Davie’s blue eyes dilated in amazement, and were very 
round and bright for full ten astounded minutes; 

“ Well, I am beat ! ” She looked as if a very little more 
would have rendered her helpless, as she was already 
nearly speechless. “And pray, Mrs. Shirley, how long 
have you borne the euphonious title ? ” 

“ Since I was fifteen.” 

This was equally wonderful, and Davie sank back under 
the second shock, unable to articulate a single word. 

“ I am in a mood for confessing this evening, provided 
you promise to be forever silent.” 

“Red-hot pincers shall not tear the secret from me,” 
vowed Davie. - 

“ I do not think pincers, and the like obsolete implements 
of torture, will be brought into requisition, so I will ven- 
ture the confession. You remember the sleigh-ride that 
cold day, when Aunt Ruth was opposed to my going?” 

“ Perfectly well.” 

“ If I had listened to her I should have been spared a 
world of trouble and sorrow. We drove fifty miles that 
30 


350 


WHO WAS SHE? 


afternoon, and were married at a little country parsonage 
on the way. A clumsy old minister officiated, and his wife 
and the cook were witnesses, and that is the way Imogene, 
daughter of Jasper, Marquis of Yahl, was married, and 
that is why she cannot marry, were she so inclined, the 
Duke de Charlier.” 

Davie held up her hands in sheer astonishment, com- 
pletely beyond comment on this extraordinary revelation. 

“ You know how he neglected me on his succeeding visit, 
and I resented the slight. I met him under the hickory in 
the evening, at his request, as he said, to explain, and there 
he taunted, or rather threw it at me, in the way of strength- 
ening his argument, of my birth. Reflecting; as it did, on 
my mother, I would not forgive. What took place there 
is not for me to speak ; enough that it drove me from you, 
Davie ; and why I fled so secretly was that my going should 
not reach his ears. I was revengeful, then, and he had 
always loved me, despite the incongruity of his conduct, 
and I knew that not to know where I was would strike him 
deep ; and then, again, he might have resorted to his legal 
authority, and compelled me to do his bidding, at least so 
far as my doing as I pleased was concerned ; so I baffled 
him and the village, confident that you would send him the 
most specific details in the most harrowing style you could 
command.” 

“ Oh, you implacable ! No wonder you were so terrified 
when I confided to you, in trusting innocence, the puerile 
penchant I had for — ahem! — your husband. And now I 
recollect, I was a sort of go-between all the time. What a 
goose I must have appeared,” and they both laughed at the 
ludicrous reminiscence. 

“ Philip was my god in those days, and if he had bade 
me hold my hand in the fire I should have unhesitatingly 
complied. The chord snapped too late to save me, and it 
was long before I found heart to look the world in the face.” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


351 


“ It would have killed me,” said Davie, regulating the 
gravity of her mirthfulness by Imogene’s sudden soberness. 

She had her doubts of Davie’s dying of any sort of heart 
complaint, but refrained from expressing it, alluding only 
to herself. 

“ But I am made of sterner stuff, and shrivelled inwardly. 
I kept a little love for you and Aunt Ruth, and cast out 
the rest. Not that I am entirely unmindful of Philip. The 
old tyrant frequently grapples me unaware, and I am forced 
to keep continually on the defensive.” 

“ I’d let the old tyrant have his way, if it were my case,” 
said Davie, determinedly. “You love him yet, Genie, and 
there is no use your trying to deny it ; there is not so much 
viridity about me as you think. If I were you, Imogene, I 
would follow my heart ; and if it carried me back to him, I 
would not resist.” 

“ The wrong he did me he has atoned, and I have for- 
given. The wrong he did a sorrow-stricken woman’s dust 
is not mine to forgive. I met him in Washington a few 
days since. Look at me now, and judge if I were merciful.” 

Davie looked, and saw a beautiful face, cold and hard 
as marble, pitiless and inflexible as a rock, and made no 
further plea for Philip. 


352 


WHO WAS SHE? 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

PHILIP WINS HIS LAST VICTORY. 

T HE frolicking June breezes, toying with the leaves and 
flowers, tempted Imogene to a ramble among the old 
haunts, and she set out to live over again the days of her 
youth. Davie had just told her how kind Philip had been 
to poor Mary Parker, and at his own expense and under 
his personal supervision had sent on the body of her dead 
husband, and had written her a letter, an hour after she 
was a widow, that had taken away much of the pain. 
Imogene did not feel so relentless toward him after that, 
for if he could be thoughtful of the widow and the father- 
less, there must be something of the angel in him yet. 
And while she .went on down the lane, thinking better of 
him, the birds were twittering lovingly in the trees, the 
larks and bobolinks singing merrily in the meadows, bal- 
ancing gracefully on the bending head of a thistle, or 
swinging airily on the swaying buds of the tall meadow- 
lilies, and the ringdove was cooing in the belt of woods 
beyond the blue flags and cowslips of the marsh. Ah ! 
after all the splendor, it was home here ! Imogene felt it, 
and leaning against the wall under the tree, where Phil had 
•attended the obsequies of the maimed bat, she folded her 
arms on the cool stones, and looked off across the quiet 
landscape. “Nothing is changed; all is as I left it — no- 
thing is changed but me,” she murmured, plaintively. A 
bright-eyed striped squirrel scampered past her, and whisk- 
ing his tail over his head, sat down on the wall at a respect- 
ful distance to look at her. It recalled another memory, 
and she could not help uttering her sad regrets aloud. “ I 
am so sorry that I have not lived my better self; so 


WHO WAS SHE? 


353 


sorry that my life is such a wreck. So sorry ; ah ! so 
sorry ! ” 

“ Won't you let me be sorry with you , Gypsy?” 

She started in superstitious terror. Was heaven giving 
back her childhood? She turned in dismay, and there 
beside her smiled Philip Shirley. She retreated haughtily. 

" Will you never have done tormenting me? You have 
marred my soul into a hideous semblance of what a woman’s 
should be, and let the ruin content you. Leave me to glean 
the little joy your ruthlessness has spared me. Leave me.” 

“ No, Imogene, I will not. I do not care for your anger, 
pride, nor sarcasms ; they are a woman’s weapons, and I 
never feared them. I am going to ask a question that you 
must answer unreservedly. Do you love me ? ” 

His voice was iron, but she replied evasively : 

“You have asked that question before, sir; and, if I 
remember aright, I think I answered it plainly.” 

“ I ask it again, and will not be denied.” 

“ Do I love you ? Ask all these years of misery ; ask of 
the blight and mildew that, like a mouldy garment, has 
fallen on the truth and faith I plighted. Did I love you ? 
Like the rest of our lives, it is a mockery.” 

“ It is not did you love me ; the question is do you love 
me?” 

“ I think I can say, like Mary of England, that after 
death they will find the name of Philip engraved on my 
heart.” 

“ But Mary hated Philip.” 

“And I loved him.” 

“Obstinate and non-committal to the last.. But I am 
satisfied. Even while you speak of me as past, you love 
me dearly, and you are mine. There is no use struggling, 
Gypsy, for the chains will not break.” 

“ But they will,” she retorted fiercely, aggravated by his 
manner of calm authority, “ and shall. The law, at word 
30 * 


354 


WHO WAS SHE 


from me, will strike off my fetters, and you are powerless 
to hinder.” 

“ Look back to the past, Imogene, and see if you have 
the courage to do it.” 

“ I do not believe in retrogression.” 

“ That may be, but I ’ll put my faith in the time when 
we were children. I heard a rumor in Washington that 
the marquis was solicitous of your union with a French 
duke. Is it true?” 

“ It is true.” 

“And you?” 

“ He is my father, and it is my duty to obey him.” 

“ Then understand that I forbid it. You are my wife, 
and by the God above us, I ’ll see you dead, but no man’s 
bride,” he grated vehemently. 

“A stronger power than yours guards me now, and you 
and your claims are alike impotent.” 

The words were contemptuous, but her furtive glance 
was gentle, for woman-like, it rather pleased her to beheld 
worth fighting for. 

“ You have not outlived your satire, that is certain ; but 
I am not to be intimidated by it, as you shall see, for I am 
going to ask another question.” 

“ I do not recognize your right to question me, sir.” 

“ But I do, and that is sufficient.” 

“ For the sake of my personal safety, I presume I ought 
to defer to your arbitrary assumptions, remembering that 
you have the physical strength to enforce your dictations.” 
The covert reference struck home. His features grew livid, 
in startling contrast with the heavy black moustache and 
jetty brows, and the expression was one not to be lightly 
called to Philip Shirley’s face. It touched her. “ I did 
not mean that, Philip ; and to make amends, ask what you 
will, and I will answer truthfully.” 

“ Will you appeal to the law ? ” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


355 


She hesitated. His face was still white, and her own 
gradually softened. “ No ; not for all the splendor beneath 
this wide blue sky would I sever or discountenance the poor, 
pitiful, child-tie that binds you and me, Philip. The bondage 
is dearer from its pain, and I have ever been true to it.” 

It was beautiful to see the eyes he turned on her. 

“ Gypsy, my child-wife, are we never to be reconciled ? 
Are there no amends that I can make that will span the 
gulf? Tell me anything, and I will do it. I have wronged 
you past forgiveness, I know, but I ’ll bow the knee, and 
pray it at your hands. What can I do to show you my 
deep contrition ? ” 

“ Leave me ! only leave me ; it is all I ask.” Her quiv- 
ering lips and downcast eyes gave the lie to the words, but 
she would not retract. “ You remember my vow, and I will 
keep it. It stands between you and me eternally.” 

“ A preposterous vow, invalid the moment it was uttered, 
for at that very- time you were not Imogene Yale, nor a 
peeress of France, but Imogene Shirley, my wife, and ex- 
actly that which you swore you would not be; nothing 
more nor less, and a very stubborn and unalterable fact, 
too. I have loved, and scolded, and wounded you, but you 
are my darling, for all ; and as you hold an impossible vow 
so sacred, I will hold a possible one more sacred, and, in 
the name of your dead mother, claim you — she who laid 
my wicked head on her dying heart, and implored me to 
be kind to Genie. I promised ; and, by the heavens she 
has entered, I will keep the promise. Her blessing is in 
the air — it is all around us. She is bending from the 
clouds; I see her fair hair and rose-tinted cheeks — the 
thin fingers are on my h^ad, and her voice, like a prayer, 
in my ears. It is only a* cloud ; it is only a stirring leaf, 
but to me it is Elinor ; my battle-angel, my saint. I sinned, 
and I repented. I went astray, and I suffered ; and now I 
ask the reward of suffering.” 


356 


WHO WAS SHE? 


Imogene followed his # gaze to the sky iu a hush of awe, 
as she had that day under the lilacs. 

“ It is not just to attack the only weak spot my heart 
has not fortified. Let my mother’s dust rest.” 

“ She knows I need her aid, and she comes to say peace 
between us. I have reasoned and entreated you in vain, 
but it must end here ; it is only pride that holds you back, 
and you shall not leave this spot until the happiness-de- 
stroying despot is crushed, never again to rise up against 
me. You must own up, Gypsy, for you can’t go till you do. 
You will find me firm as ever, and surrender you must.” 

“ I will answer you to-morrow, sir,” she said, in stately 
condescension, as if the conversation was ended. 

“ Ah, no you won’t. I never lost a victory yet by leav- 
ing it half won, and I don’t intend to this. You are a 
prisoner until you agree unconditionally to my terms.” 

" But, Philip — ” 

“ But Gypsy — ” 

His hand was caressing the rings of hair on her forehead 
- — the gentle hand of other days — and her eyes, tender as 
eyes could be, went lovingly up to the love of his. 

“ I am waiting.” 

His voice was at its sweetest cadence, and the soldier 
had conquered. 

“ Take me$ Phil, my heart is bursting.” 

And, almost lifeless, she was in his arms, sobbing out 
the “ anguish of th^se many years.” The long enforced 
constraint gave way, And the monster pride lay dead, and, 
half ashamed of his reign and dethronement, she turned 
her wet face to the old tyrant’s bosom, leaving Philip to 
make the most of the small portion of brow left visible. 
The new king tangled his fingers in the ebon curls falling 
over his arm in a glossy mesh — “A thing to be jewelled 
and braided and kissed ” — and for half an hour spoke 
not a word ; and during that time she was only conscious 


WHO WAS SHE? 


357 


of a heart beating against her'cheek; and he that it 
was Gypsy, his beautiful wife, rid of her trouble, and 
home in his arms forever. The little striped squirrel 
skipped by, the black bead-like eyes big as a surprised 
chipmunk’s could well be extended, and the inquisitive 
glance he bestowed on the two people making themselves 
so much at home under his storehouse, aroused Philip to 
the sense and propriety of saying something. 

“ When a woman like you can weep, a man should not 
scorn to sympathize. Come, I want to see your face.” 

“Don’t tease me, I feel so bad,” was the smothered 
response from the depths of his shirt-bosom. 

“Feel bad? why, I never was so happy. The sleigh-ride 
was nothing to this. There, you have had a nice long cry, 
and I did not interrupt you, so give us a glimpse of your 
eyes.” 

She would not turn her head, although she did not refuse 
to reply. 

“ You wanted me here, and now I ’ll stay.” 

“ All right. I am too thankful for the shower to care 
for a speedy sunlight,” returned Phil, contentedly. He 
knew the different degrees that must be gone through with 
before the calm was reached, and patiently waited for the 
violent sobs to subside into passive weeping, and the pas- 
sive weeping to merge into long-drawn sighs, that in turn 
finally became deathly silence. 

Imogene had passed the violent and- the passive, and was 
comfortably enjoying the sighs before going off into the 
recuperative silence, which would be succeeded by a por- 
tentous restlessness, indicative of a desire to talk, or be 
talked to. Philip noted all the signs, but said nothing, 
and of her own accord Imogene lifted herself a little higher, 
so that her forehead touched his chin. 

“ Phil, is all the misery over ? ” 

“ Yes ; unless you insist on a divorce.” 


358 


WHO WAS SHE? 


“Don’t trifle, please; I feel as if I were in a holy place.” 

Her arm slipped around his neck, clinging tremulously, 
as in her tempestuous childhood. 

“ It seems so natural to have you fond of me again, 
Phil.” 

And the tears, like summer rain, fell anew for joy. Philip 
readily took up his old role of soothing. 

“ Don’t cry, Gyp ; you are all tears and tumble.” 

And for the tattered Samaritan-sleeve of his youth, Philip 
substituted the finest and most delicately perfumed cambric 
handkerchief ; but the tears were too fast and heavy for 
the thin fabric, and ran hot on his hand ; so he gave up 
the office to kiss the drenched eyes and quivering lips. 
The half-sorrowful, half-smiling mouth recalled the blood- 
spot on the snow, and his kiss fell tenderest there. 

“ Compose yourself now, Gypsy, dear little bride-wife of 
thirteen years, and we will talk of our happy future.” 

Obeying meekly, as was her wont when Philip was gen- 
tle with her, she put back her rumpled hair, and, folding 
her hands on his knee, in the trustful child fashion, she 
looked up in his face with the old eager, adoring expression 
he knew so well, and listened to what his life had been 
since they last met in the lane ; and when it was ended she 
took his hand, and together they strolled through the fields 
to the cemetery, for there was something there that she 
wanted him to see. 

Elinor’s simple slab had disappeared, and a costly monu- 
ment was in its place. Standing on either side, they read : 

“Sacred to the memory of Elinor, beloved wife of Jasper, 
Marquis of Vahl.” 

Imogene sat down on the green mound, and, absently 
smoothing the short grass, said : 

“ I had it cut in Italy ; the inscription below is papa’s, 
4 A husband’s last tribute to a dear and devoted wife;’ and 
the one still lower, mine — ‘Mother, thy memory is my 


WHO WAS SHE? 359 

hope of heaven.* This is all we could bring her from 
France.” 

Philip rested his hand on the wreath of sculptured lilies 
encircling the name, and placing the other on her bowed 
head, said, sadly but forcibly : 

“ I promised her that I would be kind to you, and, but 
for the one moment of madness I was, and then I loved 
you, I stand here with a free conscience.” 

For answer, she kissed the hand resting on the marble 
lilies, and whispered : “ I know it ; I always knew it.” 
And for her belief was nestled up to his side, and scolded 
for her long exile of him. Along the pebbly walks, among 
the sombre firs, through the little gate, and down the hill 
into the lane again they came, subdued but happy ; and as 
he let down the bars for her, he said, “I’ll call this evening,” 
and light of heart Philip went toward his dingy home, 
where a gray old mother had heard of, but had not seen 
her boy since he was famous, and Imogene paused by the 
garden fence to inhale the dreamy odor of the lilacs until 
reminded by the sinking sun that tea and Davie were wait- 
ing for her. 

“You look not the least depressed by your wanderings,” 
cried Miss Vida, meeting her at the door. “Have you 
visited the tryst and laid the old tyrant ? ” 

“Yes. I met him face to face, and he will trouble me 
no more.” 

“ That is splendid ; tell us about it.” 

“ Not now. It will explain itself.” 

After tea and a fresh toilet, they repaired to the parlor, 
Imogene volunteering music and Davie acquiescing. A 
quick step sounded on the door-stone, but Imogene played 
on vigorously, pretending not to hear it, nor Davie’s accom- 
panying exclamation of surprise : 

“ Philip Shirley, as I live ! ” 

“And my sister Davie’s most obedient.” 


360 


WHO WAS SHE. 


The kiss he planted on her lips by no means served to 
lessen her agitation. A swift, frightened look at Genie, 
and she precipitately fled ; but, glancing back, was shocked 
to see the audacious officer, without the shadow of a pre- 
liminary permission, walk up to the apparently innocent 
player, lift up her chin, and impertinently press that great, 
coarse, black moustache of his to her smiling mouth — 
ugh ! Davie dared not witness the result of the outrage, 
mentally wondering why people would tell such fibs and 
prate about' their vows. 

“ If I loved a man I ’d say it, and not screen it behind a 
silly oath that no woman ever keeps — pooh !” 

Oblivious of Davie’s deep disgust, Imogene remonstrated : 

“ Oh, what a bear ! You have spoiled my ana.” 

“ I ’ll finish it,” and he popped her off the music-stool in 
a triee, but as the general labored under the great musical 
disadvantage of not knowing “ b ” from “ c,” he made bad 
work of it, and insisted that she should sit on his knee and 
play for him. 

“ How absurd you are, Phil ! ” But she complied all the 
same, and recommenced the interrupted aria . 

“Hem!” said Davie, coming in at this juncture. Cu- 
riosity got the better of her fears, and she came to see 
whether it was to be peace or war. Circumstances indicated 
that there was no danger of the latter, and she signified 
her astonishment in a series of gentle coughs. 

“What is the harm of kissing my wife!” said Phil, 
twinkling his left eye toward Genie. 

“ None in the world,” said Davie, elevating her brows. 
“ But I would like to know if that is the Parisian style of 
taking music-lessons.” 

“ The very latest,” affirmed the unabashed Phil. 

Imogene’s face was scarlet. “ I am sure Davie thinks 
you a goose.” 

“ Indeed I do — a pair of them. You should be more 


WHO WAS SHE? 


361 


staid and philosophical. I expected to find you glaring 
at each other, and here you are turtle-doving at a rate that 
surpasses anything I ever dreamed of.” 

“ Wait until Thad comes, and then see, Miss Davie, if 
you don’t get enlightened.” 

It was her turn to blush now, and a picture opposite 
seemed to possess great attraction for some moments. 

“ Hush, Phil ! ” chided Imogene, and she made the hush 
more forcible by putting her hand over his mouth. “ You 
shan’t tease Davie, and she shall tease you. There is no- 
thing of the hyena in either my sister or brother that-is-to- 
be, and the turtle-dove epoch will come in good time.” 

The picture still absorbing Davie, Genie dropped a sly 
little kiss on the great brow, and received a telegraphic 
squeeze in return. 

How fast time flies when we are happy ! 

Genie thought so, at any rate, and when ten o’clock 
struck, said shyly: “ Uncle David still keeps early hours, 
Philip; shall I walk with you to the gate?” 

Philip made a very wry face. 

“ Now, Gyp, that is what I call decidedly cool, and deuced 
rough usage besides ; just to think of the wife of my bosom 
turning me out like a country booby who has overstaidhis 
sparking -time. May I ask how long this uncomfortable 
state of things is to last ? ” 

“ Until I know myself again. I don’t feel exactly right 
about it; and don’t you think, Philip, we ought to— to be 
married again?” 

“ Married again! Lord! no. One marrying gave me 
trouble enough ; twice might play the mischief over again, 
and you don’t catch me at it the second time.” But, seeing 
her serious, he soberly added : “ No law of God or man can 
unite us more legally, loyally, and lovingly than we are, 
and I do not want to dim the picture of how I married my 
child-wife by the splendors that would attend the nuptials 
81 


362 


WHO WAS SHE? 


of a lord’s daughter. I should feel a bigamist all the days 
of my life ; and nothing shall supplant the memory I have 
of a little trembling girl, in a scarlet hood, who stood up 
by my side in a cold seven-by-nine coop of a country par- 
son’s parlor, and promised to love me until death do us 
part. I remember it as if it was but yesterday. The par- 
son hunting for his glasses, his little old wife rummaging 
for her best cap, and the cook wiping the dishwater from 
her hands on the corner of her apron, that had been 
thoughtfully turned wrong side (and consequently clean 
side) out, in honor of the ceremony. I remember Zephyr’s 
reeking coat, and that I stabled him, so happy that I could 
not find the oats, nor his blanket, nor a blessed thing to 
rub him off with. I married Gypsy, and I’ll have nothing 
to do with the marquis’s daughter.” 

“I guess you are right, Phil, and we will let the old 
picture stand.” 

“ That ’s it, sweet. Give me a kiss ; and if I must go, 
you won’t be offended if I light a cigar in your presence, 
to keep me company.” 

She walked with him to the gate, and saw him depart, 
whistling as he went along the dewy road, and his cigar 
glowing cheerily in the quiet summer night. 








WHO WAS SHE? 


363 


CHAPTER XL. 

DISTINGUISHED ARRIVALS AND DISTINGUISHED 
DEPARTURES. 

FEW days after, Philip had the grace to announce to 



■H. his lady a bit of intelligence that thoroughly aston- 
ished her. 

“ By the way, Gypsy, I have forgotten to tell you that 
your quondam mistress is to be married soon.’* 

“ What, Olive ! Why, Phil ; and not to tell me before ! 
I am ashamed of you.” 

“Are you? That is too bad ; but connubially inclined 
is our Olive, and meditateth matrimony. Yea, veritable 
wedlock ; and the lucky man that hath inclined her thus is 
my old plague, Colonel Walter Murray.” 

“ Oh, be serious, Phil. I believe you are joking.” 

“No, I am not, upon my word. Little Olive is going to 
marry Murray, and no mistake. And by all that is won- 
derful, here they are at the gate ! Talk of Satan, and he 
is at your elbow.” 

Mrs. Shirley did not hear the last equivocal remark, for 
she was running to meet Olive before it was fairly uttered. 
Kisses, introductions, and exclamations of course followed 
as fast as feminine lips could enunciate. Murray eyed his 
chief dubiously, and felt like shaking Olive for her dupli- 
city in leading him into such a confounded trap. 

“ What the devil are you doing here without leave of 
absence ? ” demanded the general, trying to be stern. 

Murray saluted deprecatingly. 

“Softly, general, I am under command of a superior 
officer. She would have me ; cashiered I may be, but to 
avoid a disobedience of orders I could not, for I did not 


364 


WHO WAS SHE? 


know where in the old Harry you were ; so how was I to 
apply for a leave of absence ? Olive is small and meek- 
looking, general, but she is a woman of will, and upon my 
honor I had to come, my only hope being that I might get 
back before you did, but she artfully said that she would 
stand between me and your displeasure, and that you owed 
her a good turn, and upon my life I hope you do, and that 
you will call this escapade even, general.” 

“ I ’ll mitigate your sentence this time ; but don’t let your 
escapades of the kind become frequent.” 

“I trust it will make no difference about the brevet, eh ?” 

“ Hang the brevet ! No ; stick the star on as soon as 
you please, and confound you ! Come here, Gypsy. There, 
Murray, this is my wife, and you may kiss her once, but be 
careful that you don’t do it again, sir,” said Phil, pushing 
his blushing wife toward the equally blushing colonel. 

“Your wife — ah ! — I — well, general, you have made 
good use of your whiff of country air. Are there any im- 
portant, respectable et ceteras behind all this, that I am 
expected to inquire after ? ” stammered the colonel, awk- 
wardly saluting Imogene, who was glad to get away from 
both her teasing husband and the bashful Murray. 

All the ladies simultaneously beat a hasty retreat, and the 
general and his companion had the parlor to themselves, 
and the latter thought it was his duty to significantly 
remark : 

“ The marquis is the guest of the Colburns. Won’t it 
raise the deuce in that quarter ? ” 

“ Not a bit of it ; and if it does, what do I care ? I am 
able to give her a pretty fair sort of Yankee position, inde- 
pendent of my blas& papa-in-law, and I am rather under the 
impression that I took charge of her when le grand mar- 
quis was somewhat neglectful. Bless you, she has been my 
idol since baby-hood, and my wife for thirteen years. There 
was an estrangement — a mistake — but it was nobody’s 


WHO WAS SHE? 


365 


business but our own, and the Emperor of France, le grand 
p&re, nor the devil himself can qlter it,” said Philip, em- 
phatically. 

“ While the gentlemen were talking below, the ladies 
were not silent above. 

“ Walter is so impatient,” said Olive, plaintively. 

“ If you will believe it, he insists on being married in 
two weeks, and when I told him that I could not possibly 
get up a decent trousseau in that time, he stared aghast, 
and wanted to know what trousseau , or anybody else, had 
to do with it. Poor fellow! he had not the slightest idea 
of what trousseau was, and when I explained, he said, more 
disrespectful than I thought him capable of, ‘ Trousseau 
be hanged ! shake out some of your superabundant Paris 
dresses, and call it trousseau , and neither I nor the village 
will know the difference/ Now, what am I to do ?” 

“ Oh, marry and get rid of him,” replied Davie, irrever- 
ently. “ Mrs. Shirley here was married in a red worsted 
hood and mittens, and I don’t see but she will live as long 
for it. ” 

This turned the conversation from poor, ignorant Walter 
to Imogene. 

“ And so you are Philip’s wife ! Were there ever such 
secrets and counter -secrets, counterfeits, and idiocrasies 
heard of before ? And what will you do if the marquis ob- 
jects to your little romance, ma belle ? ” 

“ Philip was my husband when I was fatherless, and that 
will be my answer,” was the quiet reply. 

“ And a convincing one, too,” said Olive. “ I persuaded 
Walter to walk over, that I might see how affairs were pro- 
gressing before more important personages should appear 
on the scene, and in my delight at finding the tangle so 
beautifully unravelled, I have stupidly forgotten to tell you 
that my papa and your papa and that tall Oregon senator 
31 * 


366 


WHO WAS SHE? 


— what’s his name — were dining together when I came 
away, and may be expected here any moment.” 

The allusion to the “ tall Oregon senator ” sent Davie 
out of the room in a hurry ; and Imogene briefly communi- 
cated to Olive the relation in which the tall “ what ’s his 
name ” stood to Miss Lee, just as Mr. Colburn’s carriage 
drove up, and the three gentlemen in question alighted. 
The ladies at once repaired to the parlor, and as soon as 
the greetings were over Thaddeus excused himself, and 
went in quest of her whom he called mother. 

In such a house-full of young people, the little brown- 
eyed matron had established her headquarters in the 
kitchen, and thither Mr. Ruggles bent his steps. Both 
were there — Buth and David. And Ruth said, “ God 
has blessed me in my boy,” and kissed him in the fond, 
prideful, confiding way that mothers kiss good, obedient, 
worthy sons, and David slapped him heartily on the back, 
and said, “ I am proud of you, Thad, and there is no man 
in the world to whom I ’d so willingly give my daughter. 
She is all I have got, and when the old father and mother 
are gone I know she will be in trusty hands.” 

“ Where is she ? ” 

“Here I am, Thad,” and she jumped into his arms, 
bumping her little head against his senatorial nose in the 
ardor of her greeting. 

Mr. and Mrs. Lee, having “been through the mill,” as 
David expressed it, considerately w T ent to seek for some- 
thing in the pantry, and did not return. 

“ Such funny things as do happen, Thad ! Here is Imo- 
gene married this round dozen of years, and she and Phil 
looking daggers at each other up to a week ago, and now 
they are loving each other to death. It ’s a perfect shame ; 
don’t you think so?” burying her plump little hand in 
his hair, and half of her witching face eclipsed in his 
silky brown whiskers. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


367 


It was an open question as to which Davie considered a 
“ perfect shame” — the daggers or the loving. Thad chose 
to consider it the latter. 

“ A very great shame indeed.” 

“ Oh, you dear, sober, old Thad ! I am quite scared at 
your dignity.” 

“ Yes, you seem so, mauling me as if my hair was not 
susceptible to disorder or my raiment to wrinkles,” said 
Thadtleus, relaxing into a benign fatherly smile. “ You 
will never be old, Davie.” 

“ Oh, no ; but you are old enough for two,” she replied, 
complacently. 

Her head was not still a minute, bobbing about in a 
hap-hazard manner, that made it next to impossible for the 
Honorable Mr. Buggies to keep up a connected discourse, 
on account of her little cranium so frequently coming in 
collision with the outlet of all human eloquence ; and as 
the sedate lover was trying to impart his devotion, it must 
have been very trying. But Thad was patience personified, 
and after several futile attempts succeeded in getting her 
located in a listening attitude on his knee. 

“ I have worked hard that you might share fame and 
ease with me, and, excepting a few days, I have always 
loved you, Davie.” 

“ I am exceedingly grateful for the first,” she replied, 
demurely contemplating the floor ; “ but, nevertheless, you 
must give a strict account of those few traitorous days.” 

“With pleasure. During those few traitorous days I 
loved Imogene. The glamour was fleeting, I soon grew 
clear-sighted again; but I was under the spell, and the 
enchantment was delightful while it lasted.” 

“ Well, sir, as confessions are the order of the day, all 
around, I ’ll retaliate by a like acknowledgment, and I ’ll 
not beat about the bush either. I loved Philip once. 
There ! how do you like it ? ” 


363 


WHO WAS SHE? 


“You did?” nervously. 

“Yes, for a month. It was a spell, a glamour, an 
enchantment ; but I grew clear-sighted, too, because — I ’ll 
be more candid than you — he did not reciprocate. It was 
atrocious, but you set me the example, and can’t find fault.” 

' “ And did he make no advances? ” this very gravely. 

“ And did Imogene make no advances ? Bless me, don’t 
look an owl. No, it was only another specimen of love’s 
tracasserie ; and the fun of it was he did not know it. 
Poor boy ! he was at the time a Benedick, and writhing 
under his conscience and Imogene’s displeasure ; and like 
a ninny I disburdened myself to Genie, and she grew as 
white as my dress ; and said she, ‘ Oh, Davie, he is a poor 
penniless soldier, and a wife would soon become an encum- 
brance,’ and a long rigmarole of the kind — and such 
hypocrisy as it was, too ! What a pity she did not air her 
voluble sophistry in her own case, and not go and run off 
and marry the penniless soldier unbeknown to anybody, 
and go and make herself an encumbrance in such a wilful 
way. Charming philosophy, that of Mrs. Shirley ; but 
everything is comme ilfaut now, Thad, so the longitude of 
your noble phiz has no further need of increasing. There, 
kiss me and go off ; I am tired of you. Oh, dear ! and I ’in 
to have you on my hands forever and ever.” 

She threw him a kiss and danced away to the parlor, 
where a very different scene was transpiring. 

“ I believe I had the honor of meeting General Shirley 
in Washington,” said the marquis, eying the hero suspi- 
ciously, for he did not relish his proximity to his daughter, 
who laid her hand affectionately on the officer’s arm and 
quickly interposed. 

“Allow me to introduce General Shirley by another, 
and nearer title, and make you acquainted with him as my 
husband.” 

“ Your what? ” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


369 


“ My dear and honored husband.” 

Philip put his arm around her and looked at the marquis 
rather more defiantly than a dutiful son-in-law should. 

“ My dear and honored wife; and I would like to see the 
man who would dare gainsay it.” 

“ I presume I may be permitted to ask an explanation ? ” 
said the marquis, haughtily. “ It is my daughter, sir, we 
are speaking of.” 

“ I do not forget the relationship ; hut she has been my 
wife longer than your daughter, and I hold the better 
right.” The marquis winced. Philip saw his advantage 
and followed it up. “ I took her from her dead mother, a 
little, sobbing thing, friendless and alone, save the love of 
those who were not of her blood, but who have — and may 
God ever bless them — been always so kind and careful of 
her that she never lacked affection, and never knew toil, 
such as might have been her hard lot if her life and destiny 
had fallen in less sunny places. I promised Elinor that I 
would be kind to Imogene ; and when I was old enough I 
married her, knowing that if living her mother would not 
object; and her father, being at the time a myth, I could 
not very well consult him on the matter. The trouble and 
separation that came between I am alone responsible for, 
but she has forgiven me, and I don’t think I ’ll ask pardon 
of any one else.” 

Imogene gave his arm a sly admonishing pinch, for the 
general’s temper was getting somewhat hot, and more gently 
addressed the ruffled pdre. “ Yes, papa, there is a grave 
over there on the hillside, and its long-silent inmate knew 
I was fond of Philip ; and of a truth, when my mother 
died I had no father.” 

The marquis softened. 

“ Poor Elinor ! Are you happy and contented now, my 
child?” 

“ Oh, very happy and contented, papa.” 


370 


WHO WAS SHE? 


“ And was this the secret that made life so wearisome a 
burden in the grand conservatory at the Tuileries ? ” 

“ This, and my mother’s clouded name.” 

“ Then I will not mar your present joy, nor dim your 
happiness by my disappointment.” He kissed her, and 
shook hands with Philip, consoling himself by the thought 
that if he was not a titled Frenchman, he was a great 
American, and, as rank was estimated in the two coun- 
tries, about an even thing. So he said, with national char- 
acteristic warmth, “General Shirley, you have the most 
beautiful and accomplished wife in the universe. I wish 
you joy, and God bless you both;” and the next hour he 
spent beside the costly monument whereon was inscribed 
the name of Elinor. 

All Alden was on the qui vive when it was known that 
Olive Colburn and Vida Lee were to be married on the 
same day in the village church, and that all who chose 
were free to witness the impressive double nuptials. Imo- 
gene insisted on furnishing Davie’s wedding-dress, and, 
with her natural good taste and Paris knowledge, it was 
certainly a marvellous triumph — a misty, indescribable 
combination of satin, lace, veil, and flowers, that only a 
woman’s mind, deeply imbued with matrimony for herself 
or another, could have created. Wedding -toilets are so 
trite that, like the schoolboy, we skip it, and only say 
that it was a credit to designer and wearer. And when 
Davie was all attired in her bridal white, she ran to the 
head of the stairs and cried : “ Come up, Thad, and see 
if I suit you.” Thad came, and was so delighted at the 
effect that he thought a kiss might not be out of place. 
Davie thought otherwise. “Don’t, Thad; my veil and 
the orange-flowers are all fixed, and you will rumple me. 
‘ Look, but please don’t handle,’ as they mark choice store- 
goods.” 

“ Papa says I must give you these, with his congratula- 


WHO WAS SHE? 371 

tions,” said Imogene, coming in with a velvet jewel-case 
open in her hand. 

“ Oh, what a magnificent set of pearls ! Genie, you ’ve 
the best papa, next to mine, in the world. Just look, 
Thad.” And in a twinkling the jewels were enhancing 
Davie’s superb toilet, and she felt herself complete ; and 
so pleased with the princely gift — for, although Davie did 
not know it, they were worth more than her father’s farm — 
so absorbed in their admiration, she forgot all about being 
married, and when Thaddeus hinted that it was time to 
repair to church, she said : 

“ Oh, don’t bother ; this day seldom comes but once in a 
woman’s life, and I am not going to be hurried. There, 
now, I am ready. I hope mamma won’t cry, for if she does, 
I shall. Come on, and don’t you step on my dress.” 

The little bride gathered up her lace and satin skirts, 
and went down the narrow stairway, no more to return 
Davie Lee. 

“ There is a trail for you, mamma ! ” looking over her 
shoulder at the yards of splendid train reaching, as plain 
David said, “from end to end of the parlor.” Farmer Lee 
was to give his child away, and he was such a rough, 
clumsy old body, how dare he ever approach such a sea of 
-flimsy fabrics. The old gentleman became frightened, and 
suggested that he delegate either the marquis or Philip to 
act in his place, but Davie peremptorily vetoed the move- 
ment. 

“No, indeed ; I’ll have no Marquis de la Vahl or Gen- 
eral Shirley, but my dear old-fogy of a papa, in his best 
necktie and first gloves. It’s little Davie inside the lace, 
and if you will only remember and keep from behind me, 
we will manage it nicely.” The carriage containing the 
bridesmaids now drove up — three especial cronies, of 
which one was Susie Johnson — yet, alas! in the sere and 
yellow leaf of maidenhood. And the bride, after a few 


372 


WHO WAS SHE? 


more admonishing instructions to David, was escorted to the 
carriage by grave-eyed Thad, followed by Ruth and David, 
Imogene and Philip bringing up the rear, the latter in full 
uniform in honor of the occasion and to the unbounded 
delight of the villagers, and Imogene in a magnificent bri- 
dal toilet, for it was her first public appearance in Alden 
since her marriage ; and fashion, even in a country tqwn, 
must be deferred to. 

Olive and her cortege met them at the church. Murray, 
in the full splendor of his infant brevet uniform, faced his 
destiny like a man, stoutly marched up the aisle, and re- 
peated his responses like a hero intent on a domestic altar. 
Davie kept one eye on -her train and the other on her sire, 
who really acquitted himself creditably, and handed her 
over to Thaddeus at the proper time, quite as it should be. 
The solemn ceremony ended, the party re-entered the car- 
riages ; the congregation, that had packed the little church 
to its utmost capacity, swarmed out like bees ; and as the 
gallant general was about to follow his wife into the last 
carriage in waiting, a loud, enthusiastic cheer broke from 
the excited crowd for General Shirley. Citizens on whom 
he had vented his mischief were gray-headed grandfathers 
now, and boys he had whacked, tall, bewhiskered chaps, 
whom he privately thought he could thrash yet, in a rough- 
and-tumble fight, such as had immortalized his youth. 
The general bowed his thanks ; fame was sweet after all, 
and only the dust of the receding wheels, settling back to 
the road, was left to the Alden crowd. 

The bridal carriages drove to the residence of Mr. Col- 
burn, where a sumptuous wedding collation was in waiting, 
and the evening train bore away the brides and the bride- 
grooms, and the marquis, Philip, and Imogene ; leaving Lot 
to his constituency and the vim of a tight election, and Mr. 
and Mrs. Lee to wend their way home, and no Davie to be 
sunlight in the old house any more. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


373 


The gray old couple locked the parlor-door and sat down 
by the kitchen-hearth ; and this little old Ruth and burly 
old David, their old eyes dim and their old hands clasped, 
sat and talked softly of their little sunny child. 

“ It was so when we were young, David,” said the old 
wife. 

“ Yes, Ruthie ; I don’t complain. Thad, besides husband, 
will be father and mother to her, and she will not miss us.” 

“No, she will not miss us ,” said Ruth, sadly; “and 
Thaddeus is now, indeed, our son.” 

The silly old couple kissed each other, as if Ruth’s hair 
was brown and David’s darker still, and took their tea 
alone ; Hetty whimpering between times as she brought in 
the plates and cups and saucers, and whipped out the hot 
biscuits, so full of tears that one sizzled on the stove, and 
one came near seasoning the butter, and another found its 
way into the cream pitcher ; but as they were for Davie, it 
was excused. A score of old shoes lying under the maples 
and around the front gate testified to the number of good 
wishes this ancient maiden had sent after her young mistress. 

Hetty Smith considerably altered her opinion of the 
“ handsome scamp,” when that morning he presented her 
the neat little sum of 5,000 francs. And her final judg- 
ment on Elinor was : “ Well, if I was his wife, I’d stuck , 
let him gallavant who he would. Ah, Elinor was weakly 
intellected anyhow, though I am not one to speak ill of the 
dead. Say the worst of him, the marquis knows how to 
reward fidelity and toil, and she was a dreadful child to get 
along with, and keep in clean aprons.” 

And here we leave the grumbling Hetty and dear old 
Ruth and David. The homestead is deserted, the one bird- 
ling flown, the foster starling, with its mate, and the boy of 
adoption doing good afar. And that their lives were so 
full of blessing to others, reverently we say farewell to Ruth 

and David. 

32 


374 


WHO WAS SHE? 


CHAPTER XLI. 

DULCE DOMUM. 

I T is generally expected that a novel should end with the 
marriage of the principal personages, but we are tempted 
to transgess and give the reader, if we have any, a glimpse 
of Philip and Imogene after a lapse of four happy married 
years. 

In General Shirley’s elegant library, where are stored 
many trophies and mementoes of the war, is a very small 
prototype of the great soldier, in his last frocks, and alto- 
gether beyond long hair. This second edition, little Phil 
junior, is just now in a peck of trouble, for, after pulling 
down a stand of colors artistically arranged in one corner, 
and arraying the grim bust of Sherman with his papa’s belt, 
and a like marble copy of his sire with a rich silk sash, the 
property of the original of the last bust, he had found his 
best boots, and into them a little farther than he had limbs 
went Master Phil, and was so astonished when he got to 
the bottom of them to find that he could not get out, that 
he looked around to see if some one else had not done it. 
Every effort he made to free himself nearly tripped him 
up, and so, not being wise enough to tumble down and 
crawl out of them, he undertook to navigate with them on. 
In face and figure he was the exact counterpart of his 
father — dark, short, tough, and a very imp of mischief; 
only he had Imogene’s soft liquid eyes, and wavy hair, 
tangled about his father’s brow, and coming to a curly, 
unparted point in the middle of his forehead. This was 
the general’s only three-year-old hope, and though scrap- 
ing across the carpet in his best Napoleons, he was a son 
to be proud of. 


WHO WAS SHE? 


375 


A rapid step in the hall. Phil junior pricked up his 
ears, and, hut for the retarding boots, would have scampered 
toward the sound. As it was, his little face lighted up, the 
cherry lips parted from the white teeth — those first dear 
little cunning white teeth of babyhood, that make a dark 
rogue of a boy so bewitching, and his hatefulest acts for- 
givable — and a smile of eager expectancy twinkled from 
chin to eyes, and burst at last into a gleeful hitching laugh 
— the hitching caused by stopping to listen. The fat, 
tawny hands doubled into fists from the intense concentra- 
tion of delight, and, stationary in his self-imposed stocks, 
he shouted, “Papa’s tomin! papa’s tomin!”just as the 
owner of the active steps made himself visible. 

“ Halloo, Sir Mischief, what are you up to now ? ” ex- 
claimed the general, whirling around on his heir rather 
savagely. 

But the heir only tittered the louder, as if it was a 
mighty fine joke he had played on his parent. 

“ You have been raising Cain, you young rascal ; what 
do you mean by making a horse out of my dress sword, 
and a clothes-line out of my sash, sir?” demanded Phil 
senior. 

Phil junior looked ruefully at his boots. 

“ I tan’t dit ’um off, papa.” 

“ I am glad of it ; it will keep you quiet for a minute, at 
any rate.” 

“ Please tate ’um off, papa ; I tan’t,” implored little Phil. 

“ No, sir ; I ’ll keep you in them in punishment of this 
ruin.” 

“ I want to tiss you, papa.” 

This usually brought the obdurate sire to terms, and 
now he could hardly hide a smile. 

“ Come here, then, if your affection is so warm.” 

“ I tan’t, da won’t tom off, papa.” 

The little fellow went to work at the boots again, with- 


376 


WHO WAS SHE? 


out a thought of crying about it, or in the least intimidated 
by his parent’s sternness. General Shirley went to the 
door and called, in an injured tone: 

“ Gypsy, come here.” 

“ Yes, Philip,” answered a voice from above ; and in a 
moment Imogene came in. 

“ Now look here, Gypsy, I can’t stand this ; just see my 
reports, will you ; torn, and scattered, and chewed beyond 
redemption. The young scoundrel ought to be thrashed 
soundly.” The mother looked not at the soiled reports, 
but at the “ young scoundrel,” who caught her eye. 

“ Tate ’um off, mamma ; da won’t tom off for me.” 

You may be sure Imogene was not long about setting 
him at liberty, and lifted him out of the imprisoning boots 
without further appeal. 

“ I know it is provoking, Philip, but don’t call him such 
names,” straightening the bust of Sherman, and picking 
up the sword. “ He does not think he has done any 
harm.” 

“ Yes, he does, confound him ! The trouble is I am not 
stern enough with him. The rascal don’t care a copper 
for me.” 

“He is troublesome, and full of boisterous spirits and 
vigorous health, but he comes honestly by it, for he is the 
fao-simile of another Philip Shirley, the very embryo of 
yourself; and destructive and hard to manage as he is, 
you ought not to find fault with him.” 

“ Oh, well ; hang it! look at my papers ; and swords and 
pistols are not exactly the things for a gentleman of his 
age to play with. It is not his fault if he did not get it 
out of the scabbard.” Master Phil had gone back to the 
boot-straps, entirely unconscious that he was the subject of 
the parental dialogue, but he instantly obeyed his mother’s 
voice. 

“Come here, dear. Now go tell papa you are sorry.” 


WHO WAS SHE? 


377 


He immediately dropped the fascinating straps, and 
trotted across to his father. He did not think of anything 
but the ignominy of being baffled by the boots, and, look- 
ing up as he clung to his coat, said, readily : 

“I is sorry, papa; I tood n’t dit ’em off,” looking back for 
his mother’s commendation. 

“ There, Imogene, is penitence for you.” 

She put her hand on his little head, the jetty ringlets 
curling around her fingers of themselves. 

‘He did not understand me: tell papa you are sorry you 
touched his things, and you won’t do so any more.” 

Phil junior trotted back again. 

“ I ’s sorry, papa ; I won’t do so no more, if you put ’em 
high” 

“ Y ou see, Gypsy, he repents conditionally ; I am to put 
the things out of his reach, and then he agrees to be good. 
What in the old Harry is he doing in here, anyway ? ” 

“ I have been out, and he must have escaped from the 
nurse. I have been over to see Davie.” 

“ And how is the child ? ” 

“ Dead, Philip.” 

“Eh?” 

“ Yes ; Thad’s boy is still enough now ; two little hands 
running over with rosebuds on his breast that the marble 
fingers do not care to touch, and two little white feet that 
have lost their music are lying mute; a little head lies 
quiet on a satin pillow, and a little face, cold and white 
as a snow-wreath, without voice, or sight, or feeling, lies 
awaiting a coffin in the senator’s home. Thaddeus and 
Vida have no son.” 

“ I am sorry for them ; but little David was always a 
pale, sickly child, not a bit like our tawny-skinned, healthy 
scamp here,” looking down at the tawny scamp more 
benignly. 

32 * 


378 


WHO WAS SHE? 


“I know it, dear; but he was just the age of our Phil, 
and seeing Davie’s little child so quiet I — I cannot scold 
mine to-day.” 

General Shirley picked up his hoy as if he were India- 
rubber, and tossed him to his shoulder with a force that 
took away the junior’s breath, but nevertheless tickled him 
hugely. 

“ If little David is dead, why, Gyp, I ’ll agree not to scold 
our little chap either. Let him go it ; give him full swing, 
and if he tears the house down, let it come ; I ’ll take his 
hint, and put the dangerous articles, at least, up high. He 
does come honestly by his nature, and though he is as 
brown as an Indian, he is as smart as a whip, nothing of 
the pale spiritual in him, an out-and-out mischievous, 
harum-scarum boy, just as I would have him.” 

Philip sat down, and little Phil was not long in getting 
on his kneee. Clasping his chubby arms about his neck, 
he again went off in a series of private titters that was 
amusing to nobody but himself. 

Notwithstanding the general called him such hard names, 
this boy was his idol, and when he was in the house was 
pretty sure to be either on his knee, climbing his chair- 
back, or following close at his heels ; and from this undue 
intimacy, Phil junior had lost all fear of Phil senior, and 
cut his pranks about the haughty general as unconcernedly 
as he pulled his nurse’s hair or hid his mother’s slippers; 
yet he was so merry and good-hearted beneath it all, that, 
although frequently reprehended, he was never known to 
get a thrashing, and lorded it from cook to father in the 
most independent, free-and-easy way common to three- 
year-old tyrants. 

“ I called on Mrs. Murray, too, Philip, and found them 
rejoicing there. Twins. Walter is nearly wild, and such 
cunning little beauties as they are ! mostly eyes now, but 


WHO WAS SHE? 


379 


I told Olive that they would get over that peculiarity of 
young infants, which greatly relieved the father.” 

“ By George ! if Murray populates his domestic altar at 
this rate the brevet will hardly suffice. It is lucky Olive 
has a fortune, else the juvenile Murrays might come to 
want, despite my patronage.” 

Imogene did not heed, for she was looking at little Phil 
dozing on his father’s breast. 

“ Shall I take him, Philip ; he is going to sleep ? ” 

“ No. When did little David die ? ” 

“ An hour before I arrived. Thad’s eyes are sadder now 
than ever, and Davie — well, she has met a real grief, and 
is crying so that she cannot get asleep.” Imogene knelt 
beside his chair, and folded her hands on her husband’s 
unoccupied knee. His arm clasped closer his slumbering 
child, because Davie’s was so cold and his so warm. The 
silky-fringed eyelids quivered, and the rosy lips curled in 
a smile, for the child-dreams were sweet, and not an ache, 
or a pain, or a trouble in the perfect little body. Philip’s 
disengaged arm went around his wife. 

“ I ’ll never call him a harsh name again, Gypsy ; although 
I do not mean it, if he were dead I would not like to re- 
member it. He is my image in looks, figure, and disposi- 
tion, and I will bear with him.” 

Imogene placed her hand on the one of his caressing 
little Phil’s, and the three, husband, wife, and child, were 
breathing very softly, but speaking not a word. The 
mother’s face went down to the child’s, and then up to her 
husband. 

“ Our lives have drifted into a peaceful haven after all 
the storms, Philip.” 

“ Yes, darling. I have power and position, and stand 
not far behind the first ; but my wife and child are my 
best glory. Now I enjoy my renown. I have satisfied my 


380 


WHO WAS SHE? 


ambition and my heart. I have won fame, and I have 
won a home, and the angels in it have won me.” 

She looked up in his face, trusting, confiding still ; the 
baby nestled a little nearer, and Philip was happy in that 
they were. his. And thus lovingly, as it was raised, the 
curtain goes down between them and us forever. 


THE END. 



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